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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

VZi^ oS 

Chap. CopyriglTt No. 

Shei£._..i:„iD 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



SIXTY AND SIX 



CHIPS 

FROM 

LITERARY 

WORKSHOPS 



EDITE0 BY 

WILL M. CLEMENS 

Author of '* The Life of Mark Twain,'' ** Famous Funny 
Fellows," "Songs of To-morrow," Etc , Etc. 



NEW AMSTERDAM BOOK COMPANY 

156 : FIFTH : AVENUE : NEW : YORK 



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TWO COPIES HECEiVED 



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Copyright, 1895-1896-1897. 
By WII^L M. ClvEMKNS. 



All rights reserved. 



(Entered at Stationer's Hall, lyondon.) 



CONTENTS 



lo. 
II. 

12. 

13- 

14. 

15. 

16, 

17 

18. 

19- 
20. 
21. 
22. 

23 
24. 

25- 

26. 
27. 
28. 
29. 
30. 

31- 
32. 
33- 
34- 
35- 



In the Rajah's Palace 
The Duel .... 
Portia . ^. . . . 
The Edge of Nowhere . 
IvAvinia's Napkins 
The Duke of Japonski 
PANSIES, OR Pansies? 
In Extremis 

The Maiden of the Val- 
ley 

Orville and His Guitar . 
The Eternal Struggle . 
A Dream of Yesterday . 
The I^iving Death . 
A Human Spark 
Found in an Old Bible . 
The Passion Flower 
Death and Dolls 
The Suicide .... 

A Wife 

The Worm Turneth 

A Priest .... 

Jeremy's Consolation 

Venus of Milo . 

A Mockery .... 

The Japanese Collector 

Repentance .... 

The Society 

Othman the Turk 

The Mound Builder . 

Heart Thoughts 

The Nightmare . 

A Demon of the Depths 

The Breath of I^ife 

At the Meadow Bars 

The Siege of Paris . 



Herbert Ware. 

Heleu I^eaveuworth Herrick- 

Anthony I,eland. 

Will 1\I. Clemeu.s. 

lyOuis How. 

Andrew Millard. 

Edgarda Williams. 

J. H. Kennedy. 

Marye Thornburg. 

Merritt Post. 

Emily B. Stone. 

John Northern Hilliard. 

E. Meserve James. 

Will M. Clemens. 

Annie Weston Whitney. 

Helen L,eavenworth Herrick. 

Georgia Harriet Pangborn. 

Frances A Hoadley. 

Elizabeth C. Cardozo. 

Harry Saint Maur. 

Anthony Iceland. 

Charles F. Howell. 

Albert Bigelow Paine. 

Will M Clemens. 

IvCe J Vance. 

Elizabeth C. Cardozo. 

I,ouis How. 

Herbert Ware. 

Georgia Harriet Pangborn. 

Eloise Gray. 

Will M. Clemens. 

James H. Griffes. 

layman Horace Weeks. 

Percie W. Hart. 

Paul Mahalin 



2,6. From Guillotine to 
Glory 

37. The Nun 

38. His IvIttle Boots 

39. A lyOST lyETTER . 

40. The Journal 

41. Spoken . 

42. At the Opera 

43 The Valley of Dismal 

Pools 

44 A Man and a Woman 

45 Two Ends of a Proposi- 

tion 

46. Unmasked .... 

47. The Stranger 

48. As It Is 

49. The Bachelor 

50. Souls Know .... 

51. Youth 

52. The Panama Railroad 
53 As In a Dream 

54. The Monks .... 

55. The Execution . 

56 A Phantasmal World 

57. The I^egend of the Cross 

58. Faith Renewed . 

59. The Perversity of I,ove 

60. Answered .... 

61. The Island of Wine 

62. The Luilaby 

63. Jem 

64. As It Was .... 

65. The Optimist 

66. FiFINE 



Will Hubbard Kernan. 
James Knapp Reeve. 
Will M. Clemens. 
Harry Saiiit-Maur. 
A. F. Brickell. 
M G. Robinson. 
Abbie Farwell Brown. 

W. R. A. Wilson. 
Will M. Clemens. 

Harry Saint-Maur. 
Frnest Peabody. 
Fmily B. Stone. 
William Forsyth. 
Will M. Clemens. 
FleanorB. Caldwell. 
Carlotta Perry. 
Mark Twain. 
Frank M. Weeks. 
James Knapp Reeve. 
Will M. Clemens. 
Klla Sterling Cummins. 
Ruth Ward Kahn. 
Herbert Ware. 
Ernest Peabody. 
Claudia Stuart Coles. 
Philip Verrill Mighels. 
C. F. I^ester. 
Kathryn Jarboe. 
El nest Peabody 
Will M. Clemens. 
Harry Saint-Maur. 



$i 



•y*<:^riv) (xz^:>tr Gi'iOfc* c^Zi^s^ wifioK* G'cZ>^ * 




irn tbe IRajab's palace 

THE beautiful Queen lay ill. All the long hot after- 
noon a strange silence filled the palace; men moved 
about softly, looking with fear into each other's eyes ; 
and even the little pages let their hair hang quiet on their 
shoulders, and crouched in the shady court, hearkening 
to the water as it fell in the fountain. No need would 
there have been to-day for the Queen to check their 
quarrelling. 

But she, forgetful of them, was lying in the upper 
western chamber, in that darkened room, which turns 
the heart sick with dread when the loved one enters it. 

Beside her sat her lord, at last forgetting taxes and 
his skillful cheetah. Around the couch the slave-girls 
watched, and sang at times, but softly, for the Queen 
was weary. And when the day was gone they drew 
aside the curtains to let her see again the beloved moun- 
tains against the darkening sky. And as she looked on 
those immovable white summits rising beyond the 
dusty plains, peaks that had greeted her troubled heart 
each night since she had come a bride out of the south- 
land, the Queen grew rested, and laughed, the low, sweet 
laugh of her childhood. Among the girls there ran a 
shudder of relief, a rippling sound of clinking silver, as 
when a soldier in hiding after the Dacoits pass rattles 
his weapon, loosening his grasp. 



Then Sang a girl the evening song of the maids as 
they bathe in the tank by the temple: 

O, Sweet and Bitter ; O, Bitter and Sweet ; 

O, life, so full of delay ! 
O, distant hills, ye are blue and fair, 

Though the lowlands waste in decay. 

O, idle Youth ; O, restless Age ; 

O, wide and voiceless stream. 
Wending in thy winding course, 

Is thy long-sought sea a dream ? 

She ended, and there was stillness. A breath of the 
night crept chill through the room. Then there came 
up from the city below the voice of a woman calling 
her child ; the Queen opened her eyes and smiled, a little 
trembling smile, and closed her eyes again, and the river 
had found the sea. 

HERBERT WARE. 





HE would and she would not." 
The evil, that was a part of her, imbued 
her with the desire of all that was akin to its 
own corruption. 

The good, that was a part of her, inspired 
with longing for a scheme of Hfe in accordance 
with its own purity. 

« Love duty ? Duty love ? " 

A thousand little angels and a thousand 
little devils whispered the words to her. 

Sometimes it seemed as if it were the devils 
that said " Duty ! " and the angels that whis- 
pered " Love ! " Then it was just the other 
way and the angels murmured " Duty ! " while 
the devils cried " Love ! " 

She stood before the mirror and viewed 
her fair reflection, with half-closed eyes. The 
lights burned dimly, her surroundings, wrapped 
in soft shadow, seemed at last to fade away 
entirely. 

She was as one in a trance, between life 
and death. 



And there was nothing in all the world save dark- 
ness, the pale face and burning eyes that looked into hers 
from the mirror, and her persistent companions, the little 
angels and the little devils. 

Her strength left her, yet she forced herself to stand, 
unable to withdraw her gaze from her own reflected eyes 
that stared at her intently, fixedly, maddeningly. 

A thought of hope came to comfort her. 

She would try an experiment; she would hypnotize 
herself, and whatever was the stronger part of her nature 
would rule the weaker. 

Would it be good or evil ? 

The opposing elements in her soul fought for su- 
premacy. It was a hypnotic duel, a fierce struggle be- 
tween two forceful antagonists battling in one human 
being. 

Her eyes glowed like coals of fire and then, in turn, 
shone hke stars of light. 

A thousand little thought-angels awaited the signal 
to chant a hymn of victory and a thousand little thought- 
devils awaited the signal to screech a paean of triumph. 

And good sought to subdue evil. 

And evil fought to conquer good. 

At last the duel ended, and that which was the 
stronger part of her nature became her soul's master, 
guided her will, decided her future. 

But which was victorious — Good or Evi , Love or 
Duty? 

HELEN LEAVENWORTH HERRICK. 




Portia 

THE shadows in the corners are deepening and growing 
mysterious, a drowsy fire flickers upon the hearth, 
while outside the window a grey half-light steals over 
the desolate autumnal garden, and on a level with my 
eyes, as I lounge in my great chair, I see a band of cold 
red sky, against which the bare branches of the elm 
trees weave strange, clear-cut arabesques. The November 
twilight drifts into night, and in the pleasant melancholy 
of that hour my soul sinks into the past. Some one in 
a distant room is playmg softly " Auf wiedersehn,"and as 
the air of that sweet old song touches my ear, I see 
another room than that in which I sit a-dreaming — an 
Old-fashioned room with mullioned windows, through 
which the pale light of an autumn gloaming of long 
ago gleams feebly, and a young girl clad in a clinging 
gown of white wool sits there in the gathering gloom, 
and plays idly that same tender tune — " Auf wiedersehn," 
and I lean over her and lose myself in the swimming 
glories of her dark eyes, which are fixed upon a print of 
St. Cecilia upon the wall above my head. It is Edith — 
Edith, whose fathomless eyes seems to enfold and to be- 
wilder one after all these years, and the tones of whose 
voice, like low, sweet, chiming bells, echo even yet in my 
heart. Pale, dark-eyed, red-lipped Edith — so fair, so 
gentle, and so false. Ah me ! She did make me suffer — 
until Kitty came. Laughing, curly headed, impudent 
little Kitty. How well 1 remember that first night when 
she tripped out behind the flaring footlights of the old 
Globe Theatre. What life, what abandon, what diablerie 
was there I And what passion 1 My hands grew eagerly 



feverish, and my breath comes quickly as I see a vision 
of that shining head and those wickedly glittering eyes 
so full of daring challenge as they gleam into my face 
from out the shadowy past. Life was well worth the 
living then, even if she did make a fool of me, as she did, 
I suppose. Every one said so, and I had a glimmering 
sense of it myself when the end came, and she flitted 
gibingly away from me with Old Maxwell, who was sixty 
odd, blue-lipped, tottering and worth a million. Ah, 
well ! It was paradise while it lasted, Kitty, and luck be 
with you in whatever pathway your twinkling wayward 
feet have carried you. And then, I remember, I stole 
away to Essie for comfort — fair-haired, long-suffering 
Essie, with caressing voice and gently drooping mouth. 

The strains of " Auf wiedersehn" have died away, the 
corners of my room have quite disappeared in the gloom, 
and I hear a soft footfall coming toward me. It is 
Portia 1 I hear her pass across the floor, and come 
quite close to me, so close that I feel the gentle pressure 
of one little foot against my own. I know that she is 
looking with calm, inscrutable eyes into my face, but I 
am selfishly happy in that past in which she has no part, 
and I keep my eyes upon the now dead western sky, and 
pretend not to know that she is by my side. I feel her 
imperious touch upon my arm, but make no sign, and 
then she passes with slow grace behind me, and soon I 
feel her velvet facfe against my own, and her warm 
breath brushes my neck. Then, I surrender, and bidding 
those unedifying shapes of a dead past begone, I pluck 
her from my shoulder and place her upon my knees, 
where she purrs softly, and blinks her green eyes con- 
tentedly at the firelight on the walls. 

Well, well ! I am one and seventy now, and Portia 
does very well, I suppose. 

ANTHONY LELAND. 




Ube 3E^ge of IRowbete 

THROUGHOUT the hot, dreary day they plodded 
Westward. Above them hung the sky, a soHd field 
of blue. Beneath them, the yellow of the sand and the 
bronze of the sage brush, formed a dull brown waste as 
wide and as long as the field of blue above. The very air 
seemed dead like the animal and plant life all about 
them. Nothing but the sage brush and the sand. 

They plodded on, following the sun's wake. The 
horses, with drooping heads, moved like the snails. The 
white cover of the old wagon seemed a drifting ghost 
on the desert. Within, Mary sat motionless, silent — 
her breath coming in short gasps. Upon her breast the 
babe slept peacefully, for babes seem always sleeping. 

Jason walked by the side of the off horse. He 
simply plodded, drooping and spiritless, like his horses. 
There were no flies to drive away from the flanks of the 
tired beasts, for even the flies had left the desert forever. 

The day waned and slower moved the little caravan. 
Jason's back bent low, Mary's face was drawn with pain. 
The horses dragged along even slower than the snails. 
The babe slept on. 



As the sun sank, the blue of the sky became a 
deeper, darker blue. 

A joyful cry suddenly escaped Jason's lips. Far 
ahead he saw something on the desert — a tree — perhaps 
a well. Hopeful, they plodded on. There came a faint 
smile to Mary's pale face. Jason appeared to have been 
born again. The jaded horses, too, awoke and walked 
now instead of dragging themselves along. 

The man, the woman, the beasts, longed for water. 
Not the babe — for the babe still slept. 

The little caravan drew near the thing on the desert. 
Jason rushed forward and found a tree and a well — a dry 
well. And there upon the plain, under the ribbon shadow 
of the tree, they found the ruins of a wagon, the skele- 
tons of men and horses — wierd finger-posts in this un- 
known land. 

A wave of ghastly silence swept upon them. 

Jason looked at Mary and Mary looked at him. 
They bowed their heads upon their breasts. The horses 
fell upon the hot sand. The babe awoke with a cry of 
pain. 

Then the everlasting night closed in about them and 
the moonlight danced among the dead.. 



WILL M. CLEMENS. 






%avinia'5 1Rap??ins 

After Miss Mary E. Wtlkins 

LAVINIA sat alone in her tidy kitchen, sewing. She 
had made everything clean, and a kettle of water- 
gruel for her supper bubbled on the stove. Three white 
stone plates, with gilt edges, shone on the dresser. They 
were her Sunday china; she was very poor. Nine square 
inches of neatly cleaned rag-carpet were spread under 
her stiff-backed chair. She was dressed in a simple 
blue-check calico, bought at a fair ten years ago. Her 
hair was dfawn straight from her forehead; she was a 
seamstress. One yellow "consider" lily was in a glass 
on the table; she had gotten it in the woods that morn- 
ing. 

Lavinia had had toast for dinner, her first dinner in 
three days, and she was feeling contented and happy. 

" I reckon I'll finish this napkin by summer," she 
said to herself; it was one of her wedding napkins. 

There were a dozen of them, all covered with the 
same intricate pattern and bordered with a wreath of 
arbutus. Seven were already finished. Usually they 
took some time to do. Lavinia's work did not leave her 
much chance to sew for herself. 

Lavinia's eyes were pale blue and very weak. But 
her lips were still red and full, and her cheeks had not 
gotten much paler. Her hair was almost white now. 
She had been engaged to Silas Jenkins for thirty-three 
years this February. 

" I dunno when we'll git married," she had said to 
Mis' Murray at Christmas; •* times is so awful hard." 



But it was beginning to be considered a long engagement. 
As she sat there now, quietly stitching, and wondering 
whether she could afford to keep a cat, there came a tap 
at the door. Lavinia slowly got up. She was very 
much surprised. Silas never had come but on Sunday. 
Yet this was a man's tap. She folded her napkin with 
her thimble inside, put it on the table, and went to the 
door. As she opened it, she said, " Wipe your feet, 
please." 

Horatio Martin was there ; he was her cousin. La- 
vinia asked him in, and offered him the chair. There 
was only one. Horatio would not sit down ; he was 
very tall. 

" Nice weather we're havin'," he said. 

" Yes," answered Lavinia, looking out the window, 
over the patched white muslin curtain. 

" S'pose you heard of Silas's death," said Horatio. 

Lavinia looked steadily at him. Her lips and cheeks 
became white. She put one hand on the back of the 
chair. 

«' No," she said, faintly, " I hadn't. When did ■" 

She paused here; she had gotten very pale. 

" Apoplexy," said Horatio. 

Lavinia made a strong effort, and walked to the table. 
She got her napkin and came and sat down. 

" You better stay to supper," she said; " I got some 
real nice gruel." She put on her thimble. 

" I reckon I'll give my napkins to Hetty. She's only 
been engaged seven year, and ain't hardly started with 
her Hnen. Only the sheets is done." 

She smiled bravely. 

Suddenly she put down her work, with a sigh ; she 
was still very pale. 

'' I s'pose I'll miss him on Sundays," she said. 

LOUIS HOW. 



TLbc Dufte of Japonsl?! 

SITKA, 1877. February. Not an American sword in 
Alaska since June. Fire and pillaging everywhere. 
The Swine at Washington have abandoned us to God and 
the savages. 

For weeks of nights the painted Tlingits slunk and 
razed our stockade, piece by piece. They looted the 
Kehoor. The golden icon, above the couch of the lovely 
Princess Maksoutoff of Russian days, is melted to an in- 
got. The deserted barracks are a wreck. Every dwelling 
was sacked except the log-house. We glance at the cross 
of Saint Michael's. They will burn the cathedral. Then 
they will burn us. 

We are half a hundred, Americans, Russians, Cana- 
dians — barricaded in the log-house. To-morrow we die ; 
but there is little to eat and naught to drink. Vainly we 
appealed in the last months to the Swine. Swine cannot 
interpret human expression. To-morrow we die. 

We sit by dim whale-oil light, our rifles at our feet. 
All night we hear the howHng of the Sheetkas, like the 
yelping of mad dogs ; and the howling of the Siwash 
curs, like the yelping of Sheetkas. Kokwantons and 
Kaksattis are dancing around a bon-fire m.ade of our 
treasures — three hundred foul. 

Some pray, some smile — some curse the Swine. 
Michael Travers laughs the loudest. He saw his cabin on 
Japonski Island tumbling earthwards, his crops trampled 
underfoot — " all in the nose of my patron Saint ! " He 
recalls Mobile and Farragut laughing and sneezing in 
powder smoke. One man unspreads an English flag: If 
Sitka were British — then 1 Travers cheers for Old Glory. 



Yet he knows our last desperate entreaty reached Wash 
ington days ago. Will the Swine heed ? No. 

The dawn glows behind Edgecombe. Verstovoi.too, 
hooded with virgin snow, glistens like a maiden's breast. 
The air is at freezing. No one has slept ; we have eternity 
for that. The silence without is fearful. The Tlingits 
are rallying — thirsty for the blood that palpitates our 
hearts. Travers, poised at the gable window, silently 
curses the Swine, while he glares at him who spoke of 
England. No ship. Instead, a hundred war canoes, brist- 
ling with Tlingits. A witch with a labrette points gloat- 
ingly from the foremost prow. An arrow cuts Travers' 
sleeve. An Indian writhes with a bullet in his breast. 
Travers waits. Even if we write our wills, they — 

" A ship ? " cries Travers. " Yes," says one — " an 
Englishman — curse the Swine ! The Queen, then ! Raise 
the British flag ! Security and British annexation ! " 
" Yes, yes ! " shout all but one — " up, up ! " They have 
started to fling it to the breeze. "Pause," murmurs 
Travers, leveling his rifle — '' because each man that hauls 
must die. IVhich : treason, or the Stars and Stripes ? 
Hands off, damn ye ! " 

It is her Majesty's ship Osprey, Captain A'Court. 
Before she anchors a hundred swords are away from her 
in boats. The Tlingits vanish like fog. Travers salutes : 
*' We are proud to be cousins to the British, sir." 

Some weeks later the Swine awoke with a snort. 

For Michael Travers, called the Duke of Japonski, 
what did they provide ? Why, in 1890 — when he had 
made a garden of his little island, and sat with his pipe 
at the cabin door, content with a passing in the peace of 
his fruits — the Swine proclaimed the island Government 
Property. Travers had to go. He did — mad. If he still 
lives you may see him at St. Elizabeth's Asylum, near 
where the Swine wallow. andRew Millard. 




panstes, or iPanstes 

PANSIES from him, pansies from the other man. 
Great luxuriant things, purple as midnight, golden 
as the noon, white as the moonlight, with their long 
fragile stems and great smooth faces, placid as the god- 
dess of fate. These were from him. From the other 
man were little crinkled things, with short stout stems, 
flecked, capricious in their coloring, with love in their 
anxious wrinkled little faces. Those — from the warm 
moist air of a conservatory ; these — from the autumn- 
touched air of a little garden. Those — plucked by the 
hand of a servant from under a canopy of glass ; these 
— plucked by the hand of a lover from beneath the 
foliage of an old-fashioned Damask rose-bush. 

On the one side, love, wealth, fashion, influence ; on 
the other side, love — and nothing else. Was there noth- 
ing else ? She pondered for awhile. 

On that side was a noble name dimly connected with 
dishonor which was hinted at with bated breath ; on this 
side, a good, substantial, but ordinarv name, honor and 
honesty. 

That or this ? Which, O which ? 

The girl tossed the fragrant blossoms upon the table 



before her, and looked into the mirror. What mor6 
beautiful face did the mirrors of the daughters of wealth 
reflect ? 

Both loved her. Did she love both ? 

The name she bore had never been tarnished. Her 
ancestors had been true nobles of the soil, honest, hon- 
orable, upright. No one could accuse one of them of a 
dishonorable action, or of — wealth. She laughed a little 
harshly. Were they always hand in hand, wealth and 
dishonor, poverty and honor ? 

The pansies watched her with knowing eyes. The 
smooth, placid-faced ones said, '* Come." The anxious, 
wrinkled little ones said, " Come, O come, do come ! " 
The placid ones said, " We shall make you great." The 
anxious ones with ragged petals cried, " We shall make 
you happy or die in the attempt." 

" Pansies for thoughts." Aye, anxious thoughts, 

worried thoughts, care. That's on one side. 

Here are pansies, heart's ease, happy-hearted 
thoughts, pleasure. That's on the other side. 

Pansies for anxious thoughts ; pansies for ease of 
heart. Which ? 

Wealth, poverty ; dishonor, honor; anxiety, happi- 
ness ? 

She took her pen, wrote "yes " on a sheet of paper, 
took up one of the pansies, hesitated, looked again into 
the pansy's eyes, and, gathering strength, kissed the 
written word, and sent it on its mission of joy. 

EDGARDA WILLIAMS. 



Ifn lExtremi^; 

THE newspapers referred to it under the caption, " A 
Street Runaway." The physician said it would be 
fatal The victim dictated a dispatch : 

Jean, I am dying. Will you forgive, and come? 

David. 

The lightning express swung on at its fifty miles an hour. 
The cars rattled and rocked. The landscape flew by like the 
pictures of a dream. But the motion was as the pace of a 
snail beside the eager beating of her heart. " Forgive ! For- 
give, and come ! " was the only voice she heard in the roar, 
and dash, and confusion all about her. 

He touched earth once more in the endless flight of 
delirium, and felt a hand on his forehead. He seemed stand- 
ing with her again under the apple trees by the Maumee. 

•' David, I am here." The white apple blossoms van- 
ished, and the white ceiling of the hospital was again above 
him. She saw the recognition in his eyes, and, with an arm 
gently held about his neck, she laid her face against his 
haggard cheek and whispered : " Not a word, David, my 
boy — my poor, poor boy. I was yours, and always yours. 
I only learned the full lesson when you were gone. Oh I 
if God were good, He would let me go into the grave with 
you I " 

And he could only whisper, " I knew it would come ! 
No anger and no trouble can keep asunder the hearts that 
God hath touched as one. I shall die, now, in the sacred- 
ness of that belief." 

She gathered all her soul into one plea, and poured it 
forth : " Come back to me, David 1 Come back I " 

He was sinking into the deep, deep shadows. But the 
desolation of her cry thrust itself into every fibre of his 



being, and he took a supreme hold on life, and deain was 
baffled and beaten back from his prey. 



The apple blossoms were indeed above them this 
time, and the broad Maumee rolled at their feet. She was 
in white, and orange blossoms circled her hair. There was a 
crutch beside him that would be his companion to the 
grave, but there was no bitterness in his heart toward it. 
He simply laid his hand upon it and said : " It was fate that 
gave me this. Because I lean upon it, I have gained you 
also to lean upon in our walk through time, and as we go 
together up the long avenues of eternal life." 

She answered : " Your cry, forgive and come ! ' pierced 
like a spear-thrust through my pride and stubbornness. It 
saved me from a sacrifice and a sacrilege — from a loveless 
marriage of pride and wealth together. It showed me the 
path back to love and happiness and you — and God has 
been very good ! " 

Then the bells chimed in the tower of the church, the 
children sang, and sv/eet showers of white sprinkled down 
from the apple trees. 

J. H. KENNEDY. 



Ube /iDat^eu ot tbe IDalle^ 

THE maiden knew not whence she had come nor why 
she was there, any more than the liUes that clustered 
in the field could tell the secret of their growth, beauty 
and fragrance. Her lithe suppleness was like that of the 
tall grasses which stood so straight, and yet bent them- 
selves before every touch of the wind. Her hair was 
tawny with the warm beams of the sun, and her eyes 
shone like the stars that came out at night to look at her. 
She ran swift races with the boastful stream, exhaling 
the fresh perfume of violets as she moved, and when she 
lay down to sleep beneath the trees they lowered their 
branches protectingly over her, the soft grasses tried to 
embrace her, and the flowers nodded above her. The 
music of her voice echoed up and down the valley where 
she dwelt, and the feathered songsters would pause in 
their flight, turning their heads first on one side and then 
on the other, to listen to the notes that they could not 
rival. 

The sun warmed her, the rain cooled her, and the 
breeze refreshed her. Every day was a carnival of glad- 
ness, and every night a journey into an enchanted and 
peaceful land. 

But one morning the maiden awoke, not to the de- 
lights which had brightened and filled her Hfe, but to 
something which she did not understand, something in 
the air about her which caused the hot blood to course 
quickly through her veins, and to stain the whiteness of 
her forehead with a color beside which the red gold of 
her hair grew dull. 



In the distance among the greenwood she saw a be- 
ing with face and figure somewhat like her own ; but he 
was strong like the oak tree, and she was like the willow. 
As she gazed, he raised his arms, there was a sudden, 
sharp report, and a bird fluttered lifeless to the ground. 
All through her body she was thrilled and stirred as 
never before, and sprang fleetly forward with an instinc- 
tive rage against the intruder, but, as she drew near, he 
turned and looked at her with eyes as beautiful as her 
own. Then he dropped the instrument with which he 
had slain the bird, and held out his arms to her. For an 
instant she hesitated, swaying lightly as the tall flowers 
at the first onset of the breeze, then felt herself sink into 
the outstretched arms with the mingled joy of heaven and 
earth. 

When she awoke it was in a strange world. The 
trees were dropping their dry leaves, the flowers were 
faded, the wind moaned and the once cheerful brook was 
at work in mills and shops. She heard no sound of 
birds save once, when a whip-poor-will came betwixt 
the sun and earth with its sad complaint. The maiden 
was alone, and in the unrelenting embrace of a great 
throbbing pain. She started to find her valley with 
slow, weary steps, carrying the burden of her pain, but 
faint, sick and travel stained, she fell at last by the way, 
and, as she fell, a palpitating, blood-stained mass of 
feathers fluttered down beside her in the throes of its 
death agony. The huntsman's work was done, and bird 
and maiden lay very still upon the grass beneath the blue 
sky. 

MARYE THORNBURG. 



i^^CcM^^^i^^l^^i^^l^^iMl^^^^^ 



©r\?tlle anb Ibis Guitar 

IN the gathering twilight Orville sits meditatively thrum- 
ming his guitar, but neither the instrument nor the 
music has any place in his reflections. He is thinking of 
Jeanette — the beautiful, false-hearted Jeanette — and the 
erratic strains are but the language of his reverie. 

"His fingers wander unconsciously among the strings 
and frets, and the magic guitar, in accents softly pas- 
sionate and expressive, tells that his thoughts are now of 
that blissful evening when they two walked together by 
the old mill-stream. He can hear, again, the murmuring 
brook, and see the phosphorescent glow which the moon- 
light imparts to the rippling water. The music grows 
rapturously sweet as he recalls the halting love-tale that 
he whispered to her, while she listened with eyes down- 
cast, and the toe of her dainty boot traced fantastic char- 
acters in the sand. He remembers her tremulous avowal 
of constancy, he remembers fondly the lover's seal 
which he imprinted upon the quivering lips, and the 
guitar speaks the enchantment of his retrospect. 

Now the notes come forth in brilliant allegro, sug- 
gesting a glint of flying feet. It is the recollection of 
the dance that occupies the mind of the unhappy Or- 
ville. He sees the smartly gowned damsels and their 
graceful partners as they move in time to the sprightly 
music. He can almost feel the yielding form of the fair 
Jeanette in his arms as they float upon the sensuous 
strains of the waltz. Then, he remembers that officious 
young captain; a cloud crosses the horizon of his fancy, 
and the notes become short and angry. He recalls the 



gracious smiles bestowed upon the officer by tlie fickle 
Jeanette, and he strikes viciously at the strings as he sees 
them dashing through the polka, and notes, with flaming 
jealousy, her sparkling eyes and the evident pleasure she 
takes in his remarks. 

The angry staccato changes to a movement express- 
ive of grave earnestness at the recollection of his un- 
availing remonstrance with Jeanette for her flippant con- 
duct. The pique and sadness which her exasperating 
replies gave him reveal themselves in the music. He 
hears, again, her careless laugh and sees that, in spite of 
her afl'ectation of indifference, she is on the verge of 
tears, as he proposes to release her from her pledge. 

The twilight has passed into darkness, and the 
mournful, waiHng melody tells how he repented his 
jealousy, and again sought Jeanette to say to her that all 
would be forgiven if she would only dismiss the captain 
from her mind ; how he found that she had gone the 
day before, no one knew where, in company with the 
captain. There is a depth of feeling in the plaintive 
tones that bring tears to the eyes of the unhappy musi- 
cian as they speak the anguish he felt upon learning of 
Jeanette's departure. The despair he felt as he returned 
to his mother's house is told in a finale of sadly express- 
ive chords which fade into melancholy silence. 

A heart-broken sob in the darkness starts the musi- 
cian to his feet. The guitar falls unheeded to the floor, 
and he turns around, peering into the uncertain gloom. 

♦'Ah, jeanette, is it you come back again?" 

Another sob is the only answer. 

« And the army officer, Jeanette," 

"O, Orville, I thought you knew. The captain is 
my cousin, and I went with him to see his mother who 
is ill." 

MERRITT POST. 



Ube J6ternal Struggle 

ONE day he awoke suddenly from the vague dream of 
childhood and became conscious that he was a 
man. He was standing on a wide plain. Before him was 
a tower, and on the rampart stood an aged, white-haired 
knight keeping guard. 

" It is not just," thought the Youth, «' that yonder old 
man should have a strong place and thus dominate the 
world. Let him come out onto the plain, and not en- 
trench himself so proudly. His tower must be leveled 
to the ground." 

" Yield, Old Man," he cried, "I am young and strong, 
and I will knock down your battlements." 

But the Old Man shook his head as though he did 
not understand, and answered in a language that was 
strange to the Youth. And so they shouted, vainly, defi- 
ances, explanations, even entreaties in words incompre- 
hensible to each other. The Youth felt strong enough to 
shake the walls and pull down the gates, and he attacked 
boldly. The Old Man came out and engaged with him. 
The Youth grappled his hoary opponent scornfully, but 
his hands slipped on the smooth armor, his heavy blows 
rang on the shield. The Old Man knew how to use both 
sword and spear skillfully. Day and night they waged 
their cruel strife ; both warriors gave and received deep 
injuries and smarting wounds that would not heal, but 
still they fought relentlessly. The Youth stood always 
facing the East, he drew his strength from the dawn, but 
the eyes of the Old Man sought constantly the fields of 
the setting sun, and so the two looked upon different 
v/orlds, although they stood so close together. When 
hard pressed, the Old Man would often retire within his 
waLls, and then the Youth, in a rage of disappointment, 
would madly assail the fortifications. 



One day the Youth paused to think. " After all," he 
said to himself, «* that is a fine old tower. No wonder 
the Old Man likes to live in it. He is not such a bad fel- 
low really, though he would like to be lord. 1 begin 
to understand him" — the last words seemed to have a 
magic power, for as they left his Hps there was a great 
clangor, and lo ! the iron gates of the tower sprang open 
before him. He gazed a moment in astonishment, and 
then walked unmolested into the castle he had fought so 
long to conquer. Its warden had disappeared, but his 
armor was in the hall. The new owner of the tower put 
on the steel corselet ; it fitted perfectly ; he girt about the 
sword ; all the pieces seemed to have been made for him. 

" It seems to me 'twould be a pity to destroy this 
noble building," he mused. '^ I never knew until now 
what a commanding position it has, nor how thick are 
the walls. It is a protection to the plain." 

There was a poHshed placque of brass in the hall ; he 
picked it up to see how he looked in his new armor. 
What change was this ! He beheld reflected an old man, 
wrinkled and white-haired, with trembHng mouth. His 
blood ran cold in his veins, his heart beat slowly. . . 

. . He heard a call from without, and hastened to the 
rampart. A young man stood before the gates gesticu- 
lating boldly and calling to him in a loud voice. He 
could not understand the words ; they were famiUar yet 
strange. He had already forgotten the language of Youth. 
And so the eternal struggle between Youth and Old Age 
recommenced. 

Old Age behind the high walls of authority and cus- 
tom ever defends himself with the same weapons. Youth 
fights with hopeful courage until the moment when he 
oegins to understand his opponent ; that moment his arm 
slackens, he pauses, he is old. 

EMILY B. STONg. 



H Bream ot igesterba^ 

A COOL breath, as of the country, drifts through the 
open window and rustles the papers scattered on 
my desk. There is a perfume of locust bloom and a 
scent of honeysuckle inthedeHcious draught so ineffably 
sweet to the nostrils clogged with city dust and smoke. 
It brings with it a fragrant memory of pasture-lands and 
meadow-streams. There is something so kindly so- 
porific about it that soon I am dreaming of the days that 
are dead, those rare, lost Junes of buoyant boyhood, 
when life was pitched to notched notes of mirthful 
melodies that fell tumultuously on the ear like clouds of 
snowy apple blossoms drifting in the wind. Happy years, 
long before I had become one of the motley remnants in 
the rag-bag of the world. 

Once more I sit on a jutting, worm-drilled beam of 
the little bridge that spans the creek — an awkward 
country boy, barefooted, tanned and freckled, a tattered 
straw hat shielding my head from the scorching rays of 
the sun. A hickory switch serves the purpose of a fishing 
rod, some coarse linen string makes a serviceable line. A 
yellow dog sits by my side beating a rataplan on the 
dusty planks with his bushy tail. Myriad midges glide 
across the surface of the stream. The cat-tails sway 
softly in the breeze and murmur a marshy melody. 
Wandering swallows soar and dip, their shadows glassing 
the water. 

Down to this same bridge when twilight swoons upon 
the rushes, and the kildees cry, I ride old blind Dobbin. 
I sit on his sharp back and brush the mosquitoes away 
while he plunges his silken nostrils deep in the delicious 
pool. . . What nights ! . . The ghostly night- 
hawk flits above my head. . . The glow-worm lights 
his lamp in the hay-marsh beyond. . , The bats criss- 



cross in the deepening gloom, and from tiie reeds and 
lily-pads floats the hoarse serenade of the bull-frogs. . 
. Ah-rr-ooomp ! . . Ah-rr-oomp ! . . Ba-aa- 
rooomp ! . . 

. . After watering blind Dobbin, I trudge down the 
dew-damp lane after the cows, whistling a tune as gaily 
as a thrush. A few stars twinkle in the sky, and the 
crescent of an icy moon ghdes ghost-wise among the 
purple curtains of night. . . " Co-boss. . . Co- 
boss. . . Co-boss." . . From afar comes the an- 
swering tinkle of cow bells, drifting dreamily over the 
summer-haunted pasture-lands. . . "Co-boss. . . 
Co-boss. . . Co-boss." . . "Tinkle. . . tinkle. 
. . tink. . . le." . . I reach the rickety stile at 
the end of the lane, and there a young girl in white is 
waiting. A sun-bonnet dangles from her hand. A tangle 
of hazel curls swirl about her ears and ripple down her 
back. Occasionally a saucy puflf of wind whips the curls 
into flossy ravellings. . . We linger by the stile until 
the vesper purple has deepened into somber black. The 
berry-stained hand rests timidly in mine. The dark 
lashes fringe the down-cast eyes and kiss her cheeks. . 
. In stammering words I whisper in her ear the old, old 
tale, and can almost feel the warm blushes of her face. 
Her answering words linger lovingly on the soft atmos- 
phere, no sound save the garrulous chattering of a cricket 
to drown their melody. . . A touch of lips, a sweet 
"good-night," and she glides through the stile and 
vanishes in the gloom beyond. . . I am alone. . . 
The night wind sweeps past moaning. . . Alone. . . 



It is here that my dream always ends, and I grow into 
myself. 

JOHN NORTHERN BILLIARD. 



Ubc %ivinQ Deatb 

WEARILY they wandered on under the warm May 
sunshine of that Southern sky. 

Man and wife they were, outcasts of fortune, going 
down together, he wilfully, she devotedly, bound in the 
fetters of that unbreakable bond. 

He was wasted and pallid ; his eyes had no lustre, 
his step no firmness. 

Her face reflected the whiteness of his, just as once 
in happier days her mind had reflected his aspirations 
and her heart his love. 

They had reached an inviting homelike place on the 
outskirts of the village. They must rest. The door was 
hospitably opened. 

Within the air was cooler. There were easy chairs, 
comfort and tokens of refinement. 

But the woman's eyes never ceased their anxious 
watch over her husband. 

He tried to speak, but the sentence was left half 
finished. He tried to read, but the hand which held the 
paper dropped slowly down. There was no power in it ; 
no will behind it. 

Now he recovered himself. He must appear well 
before his host. But his eyes closed, and again his hand 
slipped slowly down. 

Once more he recovered himself, but in vain ; both 
hand and paper were at rest on the chair. 



He had given himself up to the alluring dreams of 
his drugged brain. 

" He is ill ?" inquired the host. 

" No, it is no illness. It is death, death at the top 
first; death of head and heart. No active thought, no 
generous impulse can now be his. He has killed them 
all." 

And she, his wife? The drunkard's wife is happy 
compared with her. The drunkard is sometimes him- 
self. There are moments when he remembers that once 
he loved. There are hours when his children may creep 
into his lap and his arms close around them in a strong 
embrace. 

But O, that cursed drugl Not one lucid moment 
does it grant its victim. 

Slowly she roused him. Out of the home and on 
into the shadow of the ever-darkening future they 
moved; he, the opium eater, and she, his bondwoman, 
chained to the body of a Hving death. 

E. MESERVE JAMES. 





H Ibuman Spar?? 

HENRIQUE met her in the crowded street. Their sleeves 
touched. Her eyes met his. 

To this day he cannot remember the color of her 
hair. He has forgotten her face and form. Her name he 
never knew. 

Their eyes spoke each to the other, as the sunlight 
whispers to the dewdrop. 

In an instant she was gone, and he was going. 

Henrique was trembling. He walked unsteadily, be- 
wildered. Through their marvellous little windows these 
two human souls had recognized each other. The quiver 
of the eye was like unto the clasping of a hand. 

Does soul thus speak to soul, in mute recognition of 
friendship long forgotten ? 

Can the human spark shed light through centuries of 
darkness, outlive the crumbling earth, the roaring sea; 
grope through misty space, shine forth in new worlds as in 
old, and conquer even death ? 

Should you meet him in the crowded street to-morrow, 
ask of Henrique. 

WILL M. CLEMENS. 




jfounb in an 01^ Bible 

WHO was she ? Where did she live and when ? 
Who knows her history ? 

Did the love-light from her eyes make hearts beat 
wildly as she passed by ? 

Did men plead fearfully and hopefully for favors at 
her hand and wait for words to pass her lips that would 
mean hfe or death to them ? Who knows ? 

Did her feet perchance join in the stately minuet 
where, in her satin petticoat and panniered gown, she 
touched the hands of those whose whitened wigs would 
bend, that eyes might catch the radiance of her smile ? 



Did little children gather round her knee and call her 
by the holy name of mother ? Who knows ? 

Did time dial gently with her till a second generation 
rose to call her blessed, as the light for her grew dim, 
and the whitened hair and saddened face told those who 
loved her that her work on earth was nearly done ? 

Or did she die young? Who knows ? 

Had she perchance a heart secret, that went with her 
through a long and saddened life and to the grave ? Who 
knows ? 

Who was she ? Where did she live and when ? 

Was she a heroine ? 

Did she perchance perform some great deed of which 
the world may well be proud ? 

Is the world better for her having lived in it ? 

Who knows ? 

ANNIE WESTON WHITNEY. 



WHAT strange fate led her to my studio door on 
the day of all days, when I was ill and troubled ? 

I had destroyed my canvas — I had thrown my brushes 
on the floor. My thought was so beautiful, my work so 
unworthy. 

The rain beat down on the glass roof ; the pattering 
drops mocked my despair. Even the thought of an 
absent one, dear to my heart, had no power to console 
me. I needed the presence of a sympathetic soul. I 
needed the actual grasp of a friendly hand — the sound of 
a real voice to help me. 

There was a knock at my door and a woman, I had 
not seen in years, entered timidly. She was clad in 
sombre black, a purple passion flower at her breast. 

We had been friends in the old time ; friends — no 
more— no less than that. But in the great city our lives 
drifted apart and we had almost forgotten each other. 
What strange fate led her to my studio door on the day 
of al days when I was ill and troubled ? 

She said she had awakened that morning in a strange 
bitter-sweet mood, had thought of me— and had come. 

When she had spoken, she sat by my side and looked 
sadly at the torn canvas and the discarded brushes. 

Then I began my work anew — still it was not good. 
She read the sorrow in my eyes and, bending over me, 
kissed my trembling lips. 

The rain on the glass roof sounded like the tinkling 
laughter of fairies. My brush flew over the canvas, the 
colors blended divinely, and, at last, when all was 
finished, I could have wept for joy. The dream, the 
beautiful dream was realized, and a woman's kiss had 
wrought the miracle. 

Afterwards, on every sunny day, we left the cruel city 



and wandered through the fields, like happy children. 
But on rainy days 1 worked in the studio, and she sat 
beside me, turning the gray gloom to sunlight by the in- 
spiration of her kisses. 

It was at twilight, her hand was in mine, her head was 
on my breast and I was tooking at the passion flower, 
whose purple splendor illumined her sombre gown, when 
I bethought me of the absent one, dear to my heart. 

"You are cold, you shivered?" said the woman at my side. 

Then I told her of the other. 

She left me alone in the twiHght, but the memory of 
her white, tear-stained face will haunt me forever. 

After she had gone, something shone palely before me. 
It was a passion flower, such as she always wore, and to 
me she seemed alhed in some strange, vague way to her 
favorite blossom. I placed the flower on my crucifix, 
kissing it passionately, for I felt that the fragrance of her 
soul clung to the delicate petals. 

She came once again to the studio to greet my bride 
and wish her joy. My bride is like a June rose and I 
love her dearly. 

The passion flower is faded ; my bride laughed as she 
showed it to the woman who had inspired me by her kisses. 

"See!" said the one dear to my heart; "There's a 
flower like the one you're wearing, only this is faded." 

The other took the dead blossom and threw it away, 
saying : " There should be nothing sad in this new life 
of yours, and a dead flower is not fit to dwell with a 
happy bride." 

Then she left us and went out of my life forever. 

My bride is like a June rose and I love her deaily — but 
— the other — the other ! 

What strange fate led her to my studio door, and on 
the day of all days, when I was ill and troubled ? 

HELEN LEAVENWORTH HERRICK. 



^^ ^^ ^$^ ^t» ^a^ 



Deatb anb 2)oll5 

THE room was still as Sunday. The dampness of Au- 
tumn storms brooded in the cold heavy air, and 
dragged a clammy finger across the child's warm face as 
she peered through the mysterious door. The curtains 
that she pushed aside in straight formal folds, and 
through the gloom grotesque figures of the carpet 
blinked pompously. Released from their Hnen palls, 
the chairs sat about the walls in the mournful silence of 
red velvet finery, and from the yawning fire-place snowy 
asters looked out with pallid indifference at the dead old 
lady. 

The child cautiously approached the bier and looked 
at the drawn grey face on the pillow ; her own was just 
level with it. She was pleasantly curious and excited. 
When the cat caught her white rat the day before, she 
had cried herself hoarse and kissed passionately the 
small red wound in the white fur. That was different ; 
Jackie was playing so quietly, when all of a sudden Malty 
put her teeth right through the tiny red heart. And 
Jackie squealed. The tears began to tremble in her 
eyes as she remembered it. 

Grandma just breathed shorter and shorter, as she 
lay with her knees drawn up and her hair straying a little 
from her cap across the pillow. Grandmother was wear- 
ing a black silk gown now, and her hair was smooth. 
Then, she must be so very, very old. People must want 
to die when they get as old as that. 



But Grandmother gave her a doll fast Christmas— 
who would give her dolls now ? Another tear joined the 
one shed for the white rat. There was a step in the 
room. Grandfather came in. As he lifted her in his 
arms he saw that the little face was tearful. " Poor 
child," he quavered, "it was cruel to let you come in 
here alone." His old voice broke with grief. 

She looked at him bewildered. Why should he 
care so much about it ? He would die too, soon ; he 
was so awfully old. 

Grandmother wasn't pretty. She looked at the 
bony hands crossed over the dead heart, and then at 
her own — small, plump, and soiled. 

Suddenly the thought came, " My hands will grow to 
be like hers, — I'll have to grow old and die too," and she 
began to cry — loud and frightened wails, inconsolable, 
helpless, until the old man forgot his own tears in 
amazement that so small a child could feel so deeply the 
loss of her with whom his own joy had died. 

A black-robed aunt took the child back to the 
nursery where she grew happy again, rigging up a box 
for a bier and laying upon it her wax doll who would 
shut her eyes — she meanwhile weepmg by its side. 

GEORGIA HARRIET PANGBORN. 




if« 



Ube Suicide 

LIGHTS, laughter, music. The night before the wed- 
ding. The great rooms stripped of their lavish trap- 
pings to make way for the guests of to-morrow. 

Florists everywhere, the air stifling from their burdens 
of perfume. 

Merry voices behind the silken portieres. 

In the huge, state drawing-room deft fmgers erect an 
altar for the coming sacrifice. 

Pere and mere drift complacently about, satisfied pride 
on every feature. 

Is not this marriage the consummation of their cher- 
ished hopes ? 

What matters it if he is twice her age, and a roue ? His 
name is an heirloom of centuries. 

They knew she would forget that other one. They 
had been wise to object. She ? Forgotten in the revelry 
she hears it all. 

Kneeling there alone in the dark she is not the radiant 
creature the preparations would seem to warrant. 

Letters — hundreds of them around her; the blue rib- 
bons that had held them together flung here and there. 

She tries to read one by the firelight; but scalding 
tears blind her. Photographs strewn about ; faded flowers ; 
a glove. All that was left her out of that mad confusion. 

How can she go through to-morrow's mockery ? 

If she could only see him first. 

She will write him, telling him of her marriage. She 
will wire him. Anything — anything — to prevent the horrible 
to-morrow. 



But her pride ; her miserable pride, that has torn her 
heart into shreds. 

Wildly she hugs the letters, dead flowers, pictures. 

Burn them ? Never. 

A shudder ! His voice ! 

It is time for the dress rehearsal. A heart-breaking- 
groan, and she gathers her treasures together; smothers 
them with caresses. The beloved face ; will she ever see it 
again ? She cannot let him go. Sob after sob— dry, chok- 
ing sobs. 

For a brief space the slender figure lies prostrate, face 
downward, while the delicate finger-nails leave their sharp 
impress in the soft flesh. The burial service of her fondest 
dreams. 

A tap upon the door. No answer. They think she is 
sleeping, worn out from the tiresome day. 

Another. They have come for their victim. 

In half an hour and she will join them ; she has some- 
thing to do. 

The letters are sorted and tied in the old form, to go 
with her ; the photographs, and the crumbling flowers. 

She writes a letter — a woman's passionate outcry of 
pain, — seals it with a kiss a man might die for. Now for 
the farewell to herself, to her womanhood, to all her once 
fair ideals. 

Like one in a trance she studies her face in the mirror. 

" Good bye ! good bye ! " 

Her head sinks slowly into her cold hands. 

She stands there a trembling, helpless figure. The 
dreary, desolate years to come confront her mercilessly. 

Her punishment, she knows, is sure. 

There is a final quiver of the sweet lips; her hand on 
the knob, a wistful look backward. 

Then — a rush forward — and she runs lightly down the 
stairs to her doom. 

FRANCES A. HOADLEY. 



H mite 

IT was the tenth anniversary of her wedding-day, and 
how happy she had been I Alone in a dim corner 
of her conservatory, she paused a little, with a full heart, 
to think it over. 

She had stolen away from her guests for a moment. 
Henry was with them and was telling them one of his 
stories, so just at present they would not miss her. The 
children were safe in bed at last, sated with sweets and 
goodies ; she wanted a little moment to herself now to 
draw a long breath. 

They were like a dream as she looked back upon them, 
those long years of her married life. There had not been 
a breath of pain to mar them. She had just lived along, 
petted and pampered, loved and flattered. 

How, if it had all been otherwise ! 

How, if Henry had not spoken of love to her that 
evening more than ten years ago ; how, if he and she 
had never gone together out upon the Newport cliffs; if 
he had never courted, never won her 1 

The blood rushed in a great surge to her face, and 
her heart stood still a minute. She put out her slender 
hand with the gold wedding-band upon it, and looked at 
it strangely. Then suddenly she pulled the ring off. 

How would it feel to be free Hke that ! 

How would it feel to be out to-night under the cold, 
bright stars ; to leap to the saddle as she had done in her 



girlhood out upon the western plains ; to ride and ride 
through the dark, sweet night with the wind in her face 
and hair 1 

How would it feel to know that she might come and 
go as she listed; that there was no one to claim her love 
or her duty, none to demand her allegiance ! 

Or if it had been still otherwise ! 

How, if a voice she used to know were in her ears 
to-night; were speaking in that low, vibrating tone that 
had sounded to her in a dim conservatory, now so long 
ago ! How, if a hand that had once met her's were clasp- 
ing it even now, pressing it close and closer, till the rings 
cut into the fingers ! How, if a force that had run for a 
space side by side with her will were with her now, and 
holding her in dominion I How, if that great wave of 
chance had not caused two lives to drift apart, and if 
to-night — 

Across the lighted parlor, over the spreading ferns, 
comes the sound of talk and laughter. They fall strangely 
upon her ear as she stands alone, apart from them. 

But someone behind her is saying : " Dearest, what 
moved you to run away from us ? " 

And she answers, looking down upon her slim left 
hand that bears the wedding-ring : " I was just stealing 
a little breathing-space, darling, to think about our 
happiness." 

ELIZABETH C. CARDOZO. 



XTbe XKHorm tlurnetb 

• • A ND — I 'ave to die ? " Anette asked with the pretty 

r\ French accent that had charmed all ears dur- 
ing the long trial. Not a sound in the crowded Court. 
The Judge gravely bowed. 

" And it is permitted me to speak, oh, but, all that I 

will ? Ah merci. Then I shall speak and from my 

heart, is it not so ? Ecoute. I am a girl, a woman of 19 
years. I am not pretty nor graceful made, and so poor 
— only work girl, but that which I have to give, 1 did give 
— myself. Monseur le Judge, and you messieurs labas, 
figure to yourselves that when it is a question of the 
best that a woman can give to a man, the best of all 
womens is the same — it is her only self — and that I gave 
to Louis who I poignarded. Ah ! — " her manner inten- 
sified, her voice deepened — " if you all of the Court here 
could have seen, have been there you ' must ' have said — 

* elle a raison ; elle a bien fait — she was right.' Tenez; 
c'etait comme ceci, it was like this: I had been out to 
buy somethings. The butcher man, as I passed, mocked 
himself of me. He said: * Behold the last of the hand- 
some Louis. She shall not endure more long time now.' 
Ah — what shame I I v/cep for shame. I enter to my 
house. I tell Louis. He smile and go on, with the pretty 
poignard he 'avc, to pick the butt of his cigar from his 
porte-cLgaie. I pray, I beg my Louis to marry me and 
save me from such insult; to let me care for him always 



now, de se ranger enfin. He look down upon me. His 
red lips curl up under his belle moustache. His eyes 'arf 
close. Ah, God! what an air of disgust, 'Marry you,' 
he say, ' ugly little magot ? what do you take me for ? 
there are only imbeciles who marry. Va t'en, go — get out! ' 
— and he push me with his foot. It was not what he 
say ; it was the contempt inconceivable of the tone. It was 
a stab to me deep down to my heart, through my heart. 
My blood commence to dance ; hisses sound in my ears. I 
make one terrible cry and I return that stab of Louis 
right to his heart — but with his own dagger ! " The girl 
paused, her hand was uplifted and clenched as if with 
the imaginary dagger, her eyes were blazing, the fierce 
grandeur of her attitude gave the poor figure a moments' 
grace. Slowly her arm dropped, her flash passion 
flickered and died out. Gradually she became the mis- 
erable chetifi^e little Anette of the trial. A poor, thin 
voice added: " Je I'ai tue. I ki«ll him, and you. Monsieur 
le Judge, must have me kill. Allez, allez, f aites. My Louis 
have stab, have kill my heart " — she sighed pitifully — 
" one is already 'alf dead who is at the 'eart dead. C'est 
tout. It is all." 

In profound silence the matron passed her arm 
around little Anette and led her away. 

HARRY SAINT-MAUR. 



H ipriest 

A CHOCOLATE colored river drifting lazily between 
low hills, under a soft blue sky. A yellow road 
stretching its dusty length along the rounded hill-tops, 
following the river until it was lost in the quivering 
waves of heat in the southern horizon. A hot stillness 
enveloping a world in which there was no sign of human 
life, save where a cluster of low-browed red buildings 
slumbered in the afternoon sun beside the river, and 
from the encircling wall of which a man's figure came, a 
black patch upon the yellow road. 

His coarse robe licked the ground and was stained 
by the dust. In his hand he held an open book upon 
which his eyes were intent, his lips moving slowly as he 
walked. A tall, spare man with the long, firm, swinging 
step of an athlete, but with the waxen pallor of an 
ascetic under the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat. He 
paused in the shade of a spreading cottonwood tree, 
whose white down hung in silvery listlessness in the 
breathless air. He lifted his eyes and looked dreamily 
across the wide river toward the forest clad hills beyond, 
where the spirit of the midsummer day brooded dumbly 
over the heavy green of the motionless trees. He re- 
moved his hat and brushed the moist black hair bkck 
from his brow, lingering a moment under the grateful 
shade of the cottonwood ; and as he loitered there the 
sensuous hotness of the day crept into his chilled veins, 
and the earth odors of throbbing midsummer surged 



over him and benumbed his brain, and put his vigilant 
soul asleeping, and from out the quivering, shining air 
there came to him the vision of a woman— a woman 
with low, level brows and shadowy eyes and hair, and a 
mouth Uke a ripe pomegranite. Her dewy lips were 
parted, and in the red cleft her white teeth gleamed. She 
held her little plump brown hands toward him, and 
through the eloquent silence of the July day there 
chimed a voice, low and soft and caressing, and it said : 
" I am the world — come ! " 

A dull flush glowed in his pale cheeks, his smoulder- 
ing eyes leapt into flame, and his book fell from his un- 
heeding hands, clattering to his feet and lying with its 
crumpled pages half buried in the dust. But as he stood 
there, his senses swimming in the baleful beauty of her 
eyes, there floated down upon him the soft note of a bell 
tolling gently. 

It was the Angelus. "Ave, Maria, gratia plena . . 
ora pro nobis peccatoribus . . . " he murmured, as 
with closed eyes he plucked his book of hours from out 
the dust and resumed his march along the yellow road. 

ANTHONY LELAND. 



ti^ Ht i^ i^ "^ 
S^ ^ J^ ^ •^ 



Jerem^'6 Consolation 

BATHOS and pathos go hand in hand. A glance of the 
eye, an inflection of the voice — and one is at a loss 
whether to smile or to sigh. 

I thus mused as I watched old Jeremy in his invalid's 
chair, lumbering along the corridors of the hospital. He 
was very old — seventy, I suppose — hopelessly paralytic, a 
life-member of the hospital. One would have supposed 
him given over to misery; but, on the contrary, he was 
the most cheerful of all of the incurables. A delightful old 
fellow, taking life splendidly, he was sustained by a single 
consolation — a pot of eels ! 

Each month, about the thirteenth, he received them 
from a cousin at Hamburg. For years they had never 
failed him. The old man would count off the days on 
his calendar until the eventful thirteenth. What anticipa- 
tion ! In ten days — in five days, they will be here ! And 
then what delightful realization ! What rejoicings, with the 
box actually set down before him, and all his invalid cronies 
around ! 

" How long will they last, do you think, Jeremy ? " 

" We must make them do two weeks, at least ; and then, 
in sixteen days, we will have the next box. Draw up your 
chairs, old friends ! Only one apiece, to-day ; remember 
that ! " 

Dear old paralytic ? How often have I wished well to 
that Hamburg cousin ! How often have I turned from that 
innocent orgy divided between laughter and tears, wonder- 
ing at the complexity of human emotions with bathos and 
pathos almost one. 

CHARLES F. HOWELL. 



Denus of /iDllo 

THE room is hung with rich draperies and rare pictures. 
The heavy, antique furniture is curious and costly. 
A glowing fire sheds radiance on the polished brass and 
oak, and brings out the crimson coloring of the curtains. 
A marble statuette of Venus of Milo stands white and 
chaste amid the luxury, gazing away into the unknown 
with the same unfathomable look that her eyes have had 
in them for two thousand years. 

A little child ventures into the room, and stands for 
a moment in the firelight gazing about her— pleased, 
perhaps, with the flickering shadows and the winking 
bits of brass on the furniture. Then her eye falls on 
the white statue of the Goddess of Love. 

The child knows nothing of love save that which is 
satisfied in her mother's arms. She knows only that the 
white woman is beautiful, and but one way of paying 
tribute. 

She ventures nearer and nearer, until at last she 
puts her chubby arms about the figure, and presses her 
warm lips to those of the statue. Then she starts back 
a little, for the lips of Love are cold. 

But Venus of Milo only gazes away into the un- 
known with the same unfathomable look that her eyes 
have had in them for two thousand years. 

ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE. 




H jflDocfter^ 

HENRIQUE found a withered rose upon the floor. 
He moved about his bachelor apartments with 
wavering steps, his hands trembHng, his face wine-flushed. 

The withered rose upon the floor was as a magnet to 
his blood-shot eyes. He scowled, he stared, and laughing 
as the idiot laughs, he took the faded flower, and with the 
tenderness of a woman's touch, placed it upon the marble 
shelf above the fire. 

He sank into the velvet depths of his favorite chair 
before the glowing coals, and lighting his pipe, followed, 
with half-closed eyes, the curling smoke. 

As forbidden thoughts come quickly and with force, 
there dawned upon his muddled brain the little drama of 
the withered rose. In a flash it all came back to him — how 
she — his Pearl, he called her — the week before, had given 
him the flower, and in neglect, he failed to nourish it, the 
petals drooped, and now it lay quite dead, even as she — 
whom he called Pearl — lay dead at the undertaker's, not 
far away. The midnight pace, the glitter and the gloss, 
fade Pearls as well as roses, and Henrique, like other men, 
had drugged his conscience to the truth. Not so much as 
pity lingered. 

A neighboring bell tolled three. It startled him, and 
staggering to his feet, he took the withered flower from 
the marble shelf, crushed it in his fingers, and with a smile 
Satanic cast the hated thing upon the burning coals. Imme- 
diately he uttered a terrible oath, and his face grew purple. 

A green worm from out the heart of the dead flower 
clung to his forefinger. .. ,. 

WILL M. CLtMENS. 




XTbe Japanese Collector 

IN the reign of lye Yasu, the founder of the Tokugawa, 
or last Minamoto dynasty, there lived in Kiyoto a 
simple-minded youth, who had more money than brains. 
He was the son of a poor sandal maker, but by unhappy 
fortune he succeeded to an immense estate from his 
uncle. 

The young man was seized with the notion to have 
his house and tea-room decorated with costly ornaments 
and art treasures, such as the wealthy and cultivated 
people possess. He began collecting " antiques," but he 
did not know the good from the bad, the true from the 
false. 

In a short time the young man had squandered his 
vast fortune in buying mere imitations of the mat of 
Confucius ; the sword of the great general, Taiko Sama ; 
a glazed cup made by the celebrated Tanaka Cho-jiro, 
now of priceless value, and " Kake-mono," painted by 
inferior artists. 

After being reduced to beggary, the foolish young 
man carried these " antiques " about with him, and said 
to people on the streets, " O that I had collected coins 
struck by lye Yasu 1 I would have had a fortune." 

LEE J. VANCE. 



Xfx Xt'-* xtic xtit Vfx *,♦-< Vfi* xfit i^MC Vtif Vtx X"ti< 



IRepentance 

IN the heart of the silent night and in the glare of the 
lurid day my Sin was beside me. As I moved among 
my fellows they saw the shadow of his black wings upon 
me, and they held themselves aloof. 

" Accursed ! " they cried. •' Unclean ! " 

Therefore I went my way silently, with my Sin for 
my only companion. 

But in the heart of the black night I faced him and 
let my glance meet his. And we understood one another. 

Then it befell, after many days and by reason of 
much weeping, that there came a change. For behold 
this black Sin that towered above me grew paler and 
paler of aspect; and at length there shone out a white 
light from within that transformed him. 

Nevertheless, as I walk among my fellows, they cry: 
" Accursed ! Unclean ! " 

For with a strange blindness they still behold him as 
he once was, and they perceive not that, through long 
vigils and by reason of much pain, he has acquired a 
strange glory. 

But I only smile and look upon my transfigured 
companion, and we go our solitary way. 

ELIZABETH C. CARDOZO. 



x^x rj^ r^x r^ r4!K x^x ir^x x^x x^x y^x r^x x^x 



XTbe Society 

^//fr Mr. Henry James. 

MISS SOFARING was tremendously vulgar, almost 
vulgar enough to be an American. Probably it 
was because of this undisputedly inherent trait of vulgar- 
ity that she made no reply to my question. I was sur- 
prised (as I realized when I came to consider the case 
afterwards — I had failed to appreciate it at the time) ; 
but on happening to look at her eyes, which were large 
and of a somewhat hanal blue — (I mention these details 
because I am in the habit of dotting all my i's) — I found 
that in them an answer was clearly expressed. It was 
not so much that the eyes said anything, but there 
remains in my mind no doubt that they expressed what 
I may put into words, thus : "I do not know what you 
mean ; I am utterly at a loss." 

This was on the Thursday, and it was not, so far as 
I positively know, till the Tuesday following, that the 
force of Miss Sofaring's opinion, at least in all its com- 
pleteness, to me, occured to my rather troubled mind. 
Then the impression was a somewhat fatuous but desul- 
tory depression, such as one has on entering a railway 
carriage and finding it to be pre-occupied by far from 
effete Americans. 

LOUIS HOW. 



^ ^ ^ti 








(S^tbman tbe Uurft 

OTHMAN, the Turk, sits on his couch sipping his 
coffee. Through the half-open door of the wo- 
men's apartments comes the voice of his Circassian 
wife, singing softly to herself. With the low droon of 
the song Othman's thoughts fly away and roam in dis- 
tant lands, in France, in Egypt, in Spain and in Kurdistan ; 
now he thinks philosophy, now of the Koran, of the 
Victoria regina, of Roumania. It is all a deHghtful con- 
fusion, vague thoughts not hard to think, till suddenly 
the song stops and he returns to himself, and to his foot 
which has gone to sleep under him. 

He changes his pose and claps his hands ; not as we 
clap our hands, vigorously with a harsh noise ; he puts 
his large, soft palms together slowly, making a low, 
hollow sound, and Ibrahim the boy appears. 

"Ibrahim," saith Othman, "tell the maid to continue 
to sing. Bring me paper and pens with ink. Begone, 
now ; I would think." 

Maida hath resumed her song, and Othman hath 
begun to dip his pen in the ink. For Othman knows 
that thought is precious and must be saved, for he hath 
travelled to Paris, and his brother even to Chicago, 
where all men write whenever they think 

Herbert Ware. 



Ubc /iDoun^ :ssutl^er 



IN the field from which the potatoes had been dug, 
leaving it an unsightly stretch of uneven brown 
earth, littered here and there with dead stalks, a child 
was playing. 

The hot September sun burnished his white head with 
a metallic lustre, and shining through his large ears made 
them luminously pink, but as to the rest of him, Nature 
had tanned his skin and faded his flimsy calico slip until 
he was hardly distinguishable from the sand. 

He was very busy. His gnome-like head drooped low 
over a mound he was ornamenting with inverted tomato 
cans and broken bottles; his lips were drawn in like 
those of a toothless old man, and his forehead was 
puckered with fine lines. 

** What's all this, Jim ? " I asked, indicating the curious 
pyramid. He looked up with a wide grin, his light grey 
eyes scintillating with satisfaction: "Ajail. There's an 
angleworm in every tomato can. This potato bug is the 
jailer, and I'm goin' to hang a caterpillar pretty soon." 

GEORGIA HARRIET PANGBORN. 




Ibeart Ubougbts 

{tAt Twenty-two) 

(H, this pure, bright, beautiful, beautiful 

world I 
So full of light, and love, and happiness, 
and grand and noble men and women. 
What joy to live ! What a blissful future 
awaits me, with him, my hero and my 
king ! Love shall be our law, and success, 
honor and renown shall be our portion. 
" Hand in hand, and heart to heart," thus 
will we accomplish our heart's desire, and make of life 
whate'er we wish. My heart sings continually in its ex- 
quisite enjoyment and contentment. God, I thank thee 
for life and youth and love. 

Sing on ! my heart, sing on ! 

(iy4t Thirty-two) 

Oh, this dreary, miserable, deceitful world ! 

So full of poverty, and sorrow, and heartaches and 
regrets, and wretched, wasted, ruined lives. Life is a 
cruel strife, a continual disappointment. Idols crumble, 
hopes decay, and love dies. Friends betray us, and Death 
robs us. Courage and hope are fast leaving me. I fear the 
future. Passion and Ambition are dead within me, but 
Pride still lives. The world knows not my burdened 
heart, and armed with patience I endure. 

God, I thank thee for pride, and the power to en- 
dure. 

Bear on ! my heart, bear on ! 

ELOISE GRAY. 



TTbe IRigbtmar^ 

I AM strangely afflicted. My bones grow and my flesh 
swells. I am immense. I am tremendous. The size 
of me increases. To pass through yonder door I cannot, 
for I am larger than the door, and I would suffer pain 
were I to enter there. 

You are my physician, you say ? Ah, then you can 
give me of the mysterious medicine in your cabinet. 
You can reduce me. You can ensmall me, curtail me, 
shrink me as the sun withers the dead ferns. Then I can 
pass through yonder door without so much as touching 
my sleeve. 

But you refuse me and say I must go within as I am, 
with the greatness of me. To force me thus you say is a 
remedy for my ill, a curative boldness, a severity of treat- 
ment. To squeeze me, to crush my flesh ; you prescribe 
this as a remedy for what you call a mental and not a 
physical deformity ? 

Take these men away. They seize me, they crowd 
and crush me. They must not ! Hands off, I implore 
you ! Through the door, you say ? What 1 this mass of 
flesh through such a crack? It cannot be. It is impossi- 
ble. See ; my flesh is being torn from my bones. My 
limbs are breaking. I am being crushed — suffocated, 
mangled to the death. 

I am through the door, you say — safely within without 
a hurt ? Ah, you mock me in my agony — I am suffering 
— I am broken — undone — a mangled mass. Look, my 
breath is stopping — I am dying. These men are my mur- 
derers — they have killed me. 

WILL M. CLEMENS. 



H Demon of tbe S)eptb5 

MY written words cannot describe the Demon. In 
Dante's dreams of hades there are no such phantasms. 
The eyes are luminous, and red and green by turns, and 
glassy. They send forth darts of fire like chains of light- 
ning in the eastern skies. They charm and terrify. They 
shoot forth a virile power that fascinates and attracts like 
the loadstone. They rivet man's gaze, pierce him through ; 
draw into themselves all that is good, and true, and noble 
in man's soul — the very life, even the clay, of man himself. 

The Demon is amphibious. I have seen it on land. To 
see it once is to see it often. 

I have seen it stalking through the streets as a funeral 
passed, its great orbs fastened gloatingly on the mourn- 
er's cab. 

I have found the Demon in the cholera districts of 
Europe, whither I had journeyed in vain to rid myself of 
its fateful eyes. 

Out in the broad Pacific, at the beautiful island of 
Molokai, I saw the monster. There it eat, and slept, and 
toiled with the damned ones. 

In Death Valley I saw it, when the sands of the desert 
were burning the weary feet of the lost. 

In the madhouse and prison I have seen the monster ; 
in almshouse and in tenement. 

I have seen it on the streets after nightfall, tramping 
side by side with the lost daughters of Phryne. 

I have seen it force its way into hungry homes, into 
the sick chamber ; it haunts the pesthouse. 

It is a monster great in bulk, yet penetrating everything 
that is sombre and sad. 

In the sunlight the Demon cannot live. Where hope 
abides the Demon may not come. 

And the name of the Demon is Despair. 

JAMES H. GRIFFES. 



XTbe Breatb ot %iU 

THE wholesome breath of springtime quickened life and 
stimulated hope in the sick man. Through the 
weary winter months, while withering icy blasts had 
prisoned him within doors and the sight of the white 
blanket of snow that wrapped the earth as in cerements had 
caused him to shudder, he had longed for these brighter, 
warmer days, he who loved the blue sky and the open air, 
who knew every blade of grass in the front yard, who 
talked with the birds, and to whom every gnarled bough of 
the apple trees in the orchard was dear. 

His entreaties prevailed and, warmly wrapped, he lay 
upon a couch under the trees, basking in the sun. A gentle 
breeze now and then graciously fanned him and the sweet 
aroma of opening bud and blossom filled his nostrils. 

So deep was his sense of restfulness and quiet 
happiness that he scarcely noticed the occasional electric 
twinge of pain that ran through him. But he was very 
feeble, and anon everything about him took on a subtle, 
far-away appearance, as though he were dreaming and 
slowly drifting away from the shores of reality. 

A sharper twinge of pain recalled him and he lay back 
more wearily upon the pillow for a moment, " It is so 
good to breathe again. To-morrow I shall surely be 
better," he gently murmured to himself, smiling. 

And then a drowsiness stole over him, as though a 
distillation of poppies had filled the air, and he slowly 
closed his eyes to slumber. 

A little gust of wind came along and the old apple tree, 
friend of his childhood, youth and manhood, opened wide 
its arms, throwing over him a beautiful shroud of pink and 
white blossoms, and shaking from its leaves the dew that 
fell like teardrops upon the upturned face, pallid and still, 
forever. 

LYMAN HORACE WEEKS. 



Ht tbe /n^ea^ow 3Bar5 

THE little woman on the stage v/as singing a strangely 
familiar song, and it so startled him, the wife and 
daughter at his elbow were, for the moment, forgotten. 
The words of the song fascinated him. 

" Down by grandpa's meadow 
You'd meet me at the bars," 

and the singer's voice rose and fell, in cadence soft and 
sweet. 

Was it possible that someone else had met somebody 
at the bars of their grandpa's meadow ? 

Roguish, laughing brown eyes — tiny sunburnt hand 
— and Hps, that even to think of kissing seemed sacrilege. 
And down the lane came the overgrown boy — making be- 
lieve that he had not seen her red gingham frock from afar. 

" John Reeves, you're just too mean for anythin' — 
you never brought me any May-flowers. You'd better 
ask that city girl to go to Trout Ponds with you ; 'coz 
I'm agoin' with Chad Hunter." 

And how her curly ringlets danced as she tossed her 
head and turned away — yet expecting John would follow. 

"Coin' with Chad Hunter? Well, I don't care." 
And the two young hearts suffered in silence for many a 
long day thereafter. 

And who could have forseen that they two should 
never meet again — that cruel Fate should send Nellie to a 
girl friend's on a visit — and he to the great city. 

His mother must surely have guessed his boyish love, 
and knew that he hoped to win her some day — or else 
she would never have called him her darling boy, when 
she wrote him ever so tenderly — that Nellie Graham, his 
boyish sweetheart, had been drowned. 

Through the mists of years he sees her — down by 
grandpa's meadow — standing at the bars. And 

The song ends. percie w. hart. 



XTbe Siege of pads 

1871 

SUNDAY the one hundred and eightieth day of the in- 
vasion. All last night we heard the roar of cannon. 
" We are no longer invaded," writes the Figaro; " here we 
are besieged." 

The north wind cuts like a sabre. The air one 
breathes seems filled with bayonet points. The sky is a 
faint silvery gray; then the sun comes up, like a bullet 
heated in a forge. 

Crowds of people out. An inconceivable absence of 
excitement. Yet since the fourteenth of December Paris 
has had no news from the rest of France. Every one is 
disturbed within; but every one is silent for fear of 
frightening his neighbor. 

The churches are full: mothers, wives, daughters, 
sisters, young people, old people, national guards, officers, 
soldiers — each one prays for his own, prays to Him who 
opened the tomb of Lazarus, for the doing of another 
miracle in the resuscitation of France. 

Not the shadow of a street booth. They have all been 
sold for firewood. There is no more coal. Green wood 
is worth two francs per fifty-five pounds; wood which 
weeps like the Madeleine and burns as willingly as a heretic. 

Nevertheless there are toys in the shops, bonbons at 
the confectioners, eaters in the cafes, promenaders in the 
streets. 



After ten o'clock, not a cat stirs ; it would be slain to 
make stewed rabbit. The clear sky is jeweled with stars. 
In the long streets, punctuated here and there by the feeble 
oil lights, we hear the tramp of the patrols and the sentinels, 
and at frequent intervals the heavy grumble of cannon, 
borne in on the icy wind of the night. 

PAUL MAHALIN. 



ffrom (Butllottne to (3lor^ 

IT was during the reign of the Jacobins. 
Down the broad boulevard rattled a tum- 
bril loaded with victims on their way to 
the guillotine. One was a girl, with a 
glory of golden locks, eyes of electric 
blue and a face as fair as that of an angel 
translated from the fields of asphodel. 
On reaching the murder machine, she 
left the death-cart with her condemned 
companions,whilethe rabblement rejoiced, 
and jested, and made most merriful sport. 
"Ah ! " cried a Jezabel, pointing at the 
girl, "ah, see! The proud princess is a 
coward, for all she is a Bourbon. She 
trembles — she turns pale ! But she was 
to have been wedded to Prince d'Lanville 
to-day. Well, poor thing, she shall not 
be cheated of a bridegroom. Ha, ha I 
But his name won't be d'Lanville. Ho, ho 1 
It will be— Death !" 

" Yes," roared the rabblement, and be^ 
hold, the bridegroom cometh, with his 
best man — the headsman! Ha, ha! Ho, ho! " 
" And the Bourbon princess fears them 
both ! Ha, ha I Ho, ho ! " laughed the Jezabel. "She 

is afraid of her bridegroom — afraid of " 

"I, a Bourbon, afraid of anything?" spake the girl, 
steadily, calmly, grandly in that sovereign hour of her 
fate. " / fear Death ? Never ! for where Death is, I am 
not, and where I am. Death is not ! " 

Then, baring her neck for the knife, she submitted to 
the headsman ; the guillotine clicked, and her head rolled 
into the basket. 

WILL HUBBARD KERNAN. 




XTbe IFlun 

WE were children together, and played beneath the 
trees and in the lush grass of the meadow, and 
dabbled in the running brook. I remember well how 
white were her slender feet. 

As youth and maiden, then we strolled beneath the 
trees, and plucked the flowers in the fields, and listened 
to the music of the purling brook. And then, one night 
when the moon was out, and the soft breath of summer 
was on the land, we rested together in a vine-clad arbor, 
and her fair head lay upon my shoulder. 

Some meddler found us there — and they sent her 
away. 

That was long ago. 

But last night, as I strolled about the outskirts of the 
town, I came suddenly upon a high wall, enclosing a 
garden. It minded me much of the garden where we 
played, when children together. 

I heard the sound of voices behind the wall — the 
voices of women, and one of them wakened strange 
chords of memory that had long slept ; there are some 
things one never quite forgets. 

A peach tree grew against the wall. One branch 
hung down, but was barren, and I could see that luscious 
fruits grew further up. I caught the barren branch, and 
drew myself slowly up the wall. The women ceased 
their talk when they saw me, and one laughed and ran 
away. But the other darted a glance from her black eyes 
that gave me a sore wound. 

To-night there will be no moon, and while the 
village sleeps, I will return, and pluck the peach that I 
missed yester'een. 

JAMES KNAPP REEVE. 






Ibis Xittle Boots 

THIS Christmas morning I will see his grave again. A 
year ago I took the snow from off the little mound, 
and brushed away some dead leaves that had fallen there. 
I think there was a tear dropped on the grave as I bent 
over it, and there were tears upon my cheeks as I came 
away. And when I entered the house again, how quiet 
it seemed without the patter of his little feet, and his 
little cry of welcome 1 

There on the mantel are his little boots — his first 
and only pair. I put them there, with my own hands, 
the night before he died. 

Dear little boots ! How I have looked at them, and 
how she has taken them in her hands and kissed the stiff, 
black things, and shed her tears upon them. How his 
little eyes did shine with joy and happiness when I 
brought them home. How the red tops and bright 
copper toes enchanted his little heart. 

Dear little boots ! On the mantel there, though 
wrapped in silence, they seem to speak sweet and tender 
words to me. I love them because he wore them. And 
she loves them even more than I, for every morning she 
kisses them, and every morning she wipes away her 
tears. 

Dear little boots! The kingdoms of the world 
could not buy them ! they are sweet memories of our 
dead boy. His little boots ! Even now I hasten to touch 
them again with my rough fingers, and the tears are fall- 
ing fast upon his little boots. * 

WILL M. CLEMENS. 



H %03t Xettet 

[An extraordinary document discovered in Boston, evidently written by a 
New York Knight of the Tenderloin to a French lady of uncertain age.] 

Vendome Hotel, New York. 
cMa chere vielle fille (Can this mean "dear old girl" ?): 

C'est une salle neusance que je suis oblige d'etre ici 
mais je serais eloigne seulement deux ou trois jaurs- 
Come je mangue vous. Vous etes si gai et etounaut. J'ai 
entendue dire par un ami de moi que vous etieziet la plue 
jolie petite Marguerite dans New York, et, encore vous 
etes Francaise et ne comprends pas Anglais ansi que toute 
le monde ne peub pas mentone vous. Vous savez ie ne 
puis pas secaurs d'etre jaloux car il n'y a pas de vraie 
armour sans jalousie. Si vaus plait peusez de moi et ne 
flirtez pas avec des autres car je suis aucunfou et it serait 
un froid jaur quand je suis laisse et ne pas vous aubliez 
ca. Je suis venue ici seulement paur tirrer le jambe du 
vieux homme (mon pere) paur attrapper du bootle paur 
que nous puissions avoir un leon haute vieux temps en- 
semble quand je revieus a New York. Je vous aime 
comme, oh, comme le blue flammes, mais il est, difficile 
paur moi de mettez fa en Francais. It ya un poet, le Lord 
Tennyson, qui est un enter d'un poet. 11 a ecrit des vers 
au taur dune fille nounne Lillian qui voudrait aller bien 
paur comme une ficelle. Ceci sont les vers ie les traduiS' 

Aire faire Lillian, 

Voltant plairant Lillian, 
Quand je demand si elle m'aime 
Jaint ees petites mains au dessus de moi 
Elle ne veut pas me dire si elle me aime 

Cruelle petite Lillian. 

C'est comme 9a que vous portez vaus avec moi. 
Je vaus aime tojours come tartine. 

Votre 

H. SAINT MAUR. 



Ube Journal 

THE logs in the fire-place sizzled and hissed and 
crackled merrily as little tongues of flame curled 
round and about them. 

Bright sparks flew up the chimney and were lost 
in the darkness. The clock on the mantle-piece ticked 
in dull monotonous tones. Strange lights and shadows 
danced among the silent furniture, and were reflected in 
the polished floor. 

The background was a mass of mysterious blackness 
throwing into relief the figure of a woman. 

Her gray hair was turned to silver ; her proud, firm 
mouth looked less rigid in the firelight. 

She held a book clasped closely in her white fingers. 
They looked very white against her black gown. She 
stepped forward with a swift marvelous grace, and 
dropped the book among the logs where the blaze was 
brightest. 

For a moment it was darker, then she leaned forward 
eagerly watching the stealthy tongues of fire curl about 
the covers and steal into the closely written pages. 

Page after page of a Hfe's history the hungry flames 
devoured. Was there a sweet dream of happiness never 
fulfilled? Was there disappointment — anguish and 
remorse ? 

The world shall never know. 

Only the little heap of ashes remains. 

She turns away with a sigh, and a half-weary gesture 
of pain. Her eyes grow dim, and she gropes blindly for 
her chair. It is over— the life that promised so much. 
There is only the little future and— eternity. 

A. E. BRICKELL. 



Spoften 

" TT must be late," she said, rising from the low chair 

1 beside the shaded lamp, and going toward him. 
She, a woman of thirty ; he, a man past middle life, with 
that unmistakable color that tells of the consuming fire of 
heart disease. 

" It must be late; I think I shall retire. Good night" 
— lingeringly — " good night." 

" Not yet," he cried, as if starting from a sleep; " not 
yet ! There is something I must tell you." 

" Better not," she said quietly ; then looking at him 
and putting out her hands as if to ward off a blow, •' Do 
not, do not ! " 

" Ah, but I must. It is past your controlling, past 
mine. I will, I must tell you that I love you ! Heaven 
can hold no greater happiness for me than the knowledge 
that you love me ; hell no greater torment than that vou 
do not. 

" I do not — love — you ! " 

He grasped her by the wrists and drew her down 
until her face was on a level with his own, and his eyes, 
fierce and dark, gazed fixedly into hers. 

" Do you swear it ? " 

♦' Hush ! Remember her you call by the sacred 
name of • wife,' and God be my witness, I — love — you — 
not ! " 

His grasp upon her loosened, the eyes involuntarily 
closed as though to shut out some awful reality, his head 
fell back among the cushions. The slender thread that 
held his life had snapped. 

" 1 have killed him," she cried, in a low, strained 
voice of agony ; " killed him ! killed him with a lie ! " 

M. G. ROBINSON. 



Ht tbe (S)pera 

THOUSANDS have come to witness the triumph of 
La Diva's first night. Every seat is occupied. 

Apart from the crowd and close to the orchestra 
stands a man whose eager eye wanders over the house 
as if seeking something — someone, yet it never rests even 
upon the fairest in this sea of faces. There is a search- 
ing, hungry look upon his handsome, reckless face, and 
his hands, thrust into his pockets, finger nervously at 
some rolls of paper, and clench them fiercely. 

The curtain has risen. There is a moment's hush of 
expectation — a breathless pause, then a tumultous roar 
of applause. La Diva has entered. Beautiful, radiant, 
spiritual, she pours forth her soul in silver ripples of 
sound. The vast audience is at her feet, rapt, breathless 
and adoring, full of a mystic sense of sympathy and 
delight. 

The man alone, of all the throng, remains unmoved. 
He has not even turned his restless eyes from the great 
audience to the La Diva's face or seemed to note her 
presence. With the first tone of her voice, indeed, his 
face lighted with a new expression : was it love ? was it 
admiration ? was it pride ? was it merely greed ? With a 
last triumphant glance at the multitude of rapt faces 
attesting the power of La Diva's wonderful voice, he has 
hastily passed out and away from it all. 

As the last notes of La Diva's aria tremble forth to 
the ears of the spell-bound listeners, with wine-flushed 
cheeks and the same restless, eager eyes, he is throwing 
the dice in a gambling hell. He has staked in advance 
the profits of La Diva's first night. He has staked, and 
lost, the price of La Diva's beautiful voice. 

He is La Diva's husband. 

ABBIE FARWELL BROWN, 



tlbe tDalle^ of tbe Dismal pools 

ONCE as in a dream I came into a strange and distant 
country, and as I wandered on I saw a deep en- 
shrouded valley. I shuddered, for all about me lay 
pools of water whose surfaces were black, and hideous 
reptiles and all sorts of creeping things made their 
homes beneath the slime. And from the pools arose a 
horrid mist which hung above them like a cloud and 
made one long black night. 

Walking on, I found a rift in the mists and God's 
bright, pure sunlight poured itself upon the surface of a 
tiny hidden pool. Small it was, but pure as an angel's 
tear, and its waters sweet as the first kiss of a lover. 
From out this tiny pool a thin stream trickled slowly, 
first into one and then another of the foul and loathsome 
waters. The reptiles could not live, and sank writhing 
to the bottom and died. And soon each pool was clari- 
fied, the mists ceased rising and passed away, and let in 
all the brightness, and the blue heavens above were re- 
flected in the waters. And all was light. 

And I was sore perplexed that from this one tiny 
pool should go this power to change and beautify the 
rest. And as I stood, a voice replied to my unspoken 
questionings : " These pools, so dark and treacherous, 
are the souls of men. Evil deeds and wrongs have 
defiled them. But now you see them changed." 

And, pondering on these words, a light broke in 
upon me ; but still remained a good part unexplained. 
And once again my wonder rose and I cried out: " Ex- 
plain this tiny pool that has power to make what was 
so dark, so bright ; what was so vile, so pure. Tell 
me, whose soul is it ? " 

And the voice all trembling with a quiet joy and 
gladness whispered in my ear — " A woman's." 

W. R. A. WILSON, 



H ^an anb a Moman 

THE woman was very young. 
In her face one could see a shadow of the beautiful 
—if one had sharp eyes, for in the deserted room the 
shimmer of the sun was never seen, and the candle light 
flickered like a firefly. Her yellow hair was like a wreath 
around the wan, pinched cheeks. The wasted hands lay 
stark across the quiet breasts, and at her right, an empty 
purse, and at her left, a small white plate of dry bread 
crusts. Abandoned in her poverty — this victim of the 
streets— hastened away in the night— never to return. 

Strange men found her there, long dead, in solitude 
and darkness, a silver mold upon the faded face, the dew 
of death upon the saflFron hair. 



The man was very old. 

He was dying of a mental hurt — the doctor said — a 
pain no human skill could stay, and through the weary 
hours the sick soul lingered — a toy, a plaything for grim 
Azrjel. Never did the waters of Lethe run quite so slowly. 
Soft hands bathed the fevered face ; rich wine wet the 
parched hps, and sweet voices dulled his moans of an- 
guish. Then came at last a wild, hoarse cry — a wail that 
echoed through the room and penetrated every nook — 
and some eyes were moist and some were turned away. 
For death was near and gaunt hands were beckoning. 

He raised his head and shrieked, and with a froth 
upon his pallid lips, fell quivering back upon the bed, 
and silence reigned there with the dead. 



For the woman — Peace and heaven. 
For the man — Hell and agony. 



o 



WILL M. CLEMENS. 



ITwo JEnbs of a i&roposttton 

(iA 'Draconian Dualalogue) 

T{eginald — " Dolph, I want you to tell me something." 

t^dolpbus — " If it doesn't require long sentences I'll 
consider the request. If monosyllabic replies will 
serve, the request is granted." 

Reg.—'' Don't be a fool " 

'Dolph.—'' Couldn't if I tried. Go on." 

T^eg. — " You know what I mean " 

Dolph.—" Don't. Go on." 

Reg. — " Suppose an awfully jolly little girl " 



Dolph. — " Can't. The race has died out. Go on." 

Reg. — " Confound you, try. I say, suppose such a 
little girl conveyed in quite a proper way her admiration 
for you, and her respect for your splendid repose, and — 
all that sort of thing " 

'Dolph. — "You interest me. Go on." 

Reg. — " and then you learned somehow that she 

had a million, and could settle and fix it just how she 
liked, and then — and then just dropped on her knees when 
you were both alone, with the light just right, and the 
flowers smelling sweetly, everything, don't you know, 
working right — well, if she just dropped down on both 
knees, don't you know, in quite a cunning way, and said, 
' Dolf dear, I love you. Will you marry me ? ' What 
should you say ?" 

Dolph.—" Go to Go on." 

%eg.—^" Yes ; I thought you'd say that; but suppose 
it was the other way ; that jyoii had flopped down, and 
she had told you to go to , then what would you do ? " 

Dolph. — " Marry her. Now get out." 

HARRY SAINT-MAUR. 



XHnmasfeeb 

IN a dimly lighted alcove a man, in evening dress, 
stands peering between the half-drawn portieres into 
the ball-room beyond. 

Strains of a waltz come floating to his ears, but he ^ 
hears nothing ; he is watching a man and woman going 
and coming through the mazes of the dance. 

Suddenly he turns and sees a stranger beside him 
gazing into his eyes. 

The face is repulsive in its expression of hate and 
envy. 

Involuntarily he recoils a step. 

Only then he recognizes his own image in the glass. 

ERNEST PEABODY. 

XTbe Stranger 

THERE came to the colony a young man whose face 
was unmarked by care and whose blue eyes con- 
tained a deep happiness. 

The people stared at him, but none thought to oflfer 
him lodging. They did not inquire his name nor from 
what country he had journeyed. 

"He is not like us," said one, and he berated the 
new-comer with coarse words and threw stones at him. 

" Let him alone," said another; " his odd conceits may 
serve to make our children laugh "; and he gave to the 
calm young stranger a gay cap with bells. 

But a third said, *' This wanderer speaks words which 
we do not understand. He is mad." 

So they built with great stones a tower, and im- 
prisoned the beautiful stranger, not dreaming that his 
name was Wisdom and that he had come from their far- 
away Fatherland. 

EMILY B. STONE. 



Us irt 1F6 

THERE was a certain man who had a goodly number 
of servants, with one placed over them as overseer. 
They had all served him for years, and he knew, or fan- 
cied he knew, each and every one's characteristics. 
There were the capable, the faithful, the honest, the in- 
dustrious, the indolent, the tale-bearer, the eye-servant, 
the Judas ; and those who were at their master's beck 
and call, by day and by night, who were willing to lay 
down their lives for his sake. 

It so happened that the overseer died, and the master 
set about putting one above his fellows. Passing by the 
faithful, good and true, he made his way toward the 
ranks of eye-service, indolence and deceit. 

When the appointment was made, the faithful be- 
held Judas exalted. william forsyth. 

XTbe :fiSacbelor 

HENRIQUE was at liberty to go and come at will. 
There were no restraints, no critics to approve or 
disapprove of word or deed. Yet at times there was a 
feeling of hunger in his heart — a want of woman's love 
and sympathy. 

He often asked himself the question: "Does love 
pay ? " And he would answer, " Yes," when he could 
see happiness in the future; " No," when with marriage 
would come every element of misfortune, of discomfort 
and future disintegration. 

He looked upon marriage as a trial, as a beautiful 
passage through the valley of the shadow — and thus he 
wavered, fearful of unhappy results on one hand, covet- 
ous of a life of joy upon the other. 

WILL Al. CLEMENS. 



Souls Iknow 

OVER the seas there was a poet who believed souls 
fluttered in the wings of moths. In the final 
winding of the cocoon they departed to the blest. 

Hence, the silk of his robe he called soul's cloth, ^ 

The swarthy poet, dressed in blue, sat in his garden 
on the little hills — down below, the almond blossoms 
bloom. He smoked three whiffs, and a rest, and thought. 

This is what his mind thought : " Man has feeling, 
hearing, sight, taste, smell — has the soul more ? " Light 
faded as he smoked and thought ; two moths flew by, 
fluttering together. He laid his pipe aside and followed, 
and caught them upon the ailanthus tree. One he 
secreted most carefully within his robe ; the other placed 
in the deep bell of a flower, and tied the opening with a 
silken string. This flower-prison was hung upon the tree. 

Then holding close his breast folds that the mate 
might not escape, took his way down the hill — away, a 
mile, two miles, into the valley. And stopping where 
the almond blooms were thickest, released the fragile 
prisoner on a branch. 

Now night had come, and many lamps twinkled 
through the hills. 

The poet stood near and watched the soul. It 
fanned its wings up and down, — and rested, still. For 
five good minutes stayed thus ; and then, a little quiver 
ran like a wave along the worm body, the antennae 
moved in knowledge, and the soul rose. Slowly, often 
alighting and waiting as for a signal — at the reception of 
the spinal quiver, on it went, retracing their course. 

And the poet followed, watching by the moon. 

As the hills were neared, intervals of rest became less 
frequent, the wings more bouyant, its course more swift. 

It reached the garden long before the " soul-seeker." 



When he got to the ailanthus tree there was a neat 
hole in the purple flower. The two moths clung to the 
blossom — antennae mixed, as you would lay your cheek 
to mine. 

" Souls have more," said the poet, " they know.'* 
And he went into the house to dream. 

ELEANOR B. CALDWELL. 



loutb 

HE was old and gray, and was waiting for the sum- 
mons. Life had been hard; all the way the wind 
had blown in his face. Yet, now that he was near the 
end he looked backward and lamented that it was past. 
He spoke of the restless weary years, the hard paths, the 
defeats and losses, as though they had been happy years, 
smooth paths and glad victories. Youth was his again ; 
youth that knows not any fear or dread, but is full of 
hopes and dreams, and of the glamor of spring. He 
stood again in the flush of morning ; again the dew was 
on the grass, again the rose of May bloomed for him. 
The world was new, all fair things and all fleeting things 
were recreated. He had forgotten the frosts and the 
snows, but he remembered the violets and the wild 
flowers pushing their way through the dead leaves in the 
woods. He spoke of the love that had smiled upon 
him, of hope that had beckoned him. He talked of 
youth, the beautiful, the winged ; youth that laughs and 
vanishes. And to those who watched beside him his 
face seemed almost young again with the strange spectral 
youth that memory gives back. He whispered softly : 
" It is mine once more — youth everlasting." And smil- 
ing, he closed his eyes. carlotta perry. 



Ube Panama IRatltoa^ 

THAT railroad down in Panama was a hard road to 
build. The tropical fevers slaughtered the laborers 
by the wholesale. It is a popular saying, that every railroad 
tie from Panama to Aspinwall rests upon a corpse. It ought 
to be a substantial road, being so well provided with sleep- 
ers — eternal ones and otherwise. ^' 

The Panama railroad was an American project, in the 
first place. Then the English got a commanding interest in 
it, and it became an English enterprise. They grew some- 
what sick of it, and it began to swap back until it became 
American again. The Americans finished it. It proved a 
good investment. But the right of way granted by the 
Columbian States was limited to only a few years. The 
Americans tried to get the term extended. But they were 
not particularly popular with the Governments of the Isth- 
mus, and could not succeed. Delegations of heavy guns 
were sent down, but they could not prevail. They offered 
a few million of dollars, and Government transportation 
free. President Mosquiera declined. The English saw an 
opportunity. They made an effort to secure to themselves 
the right of way whose term was so soon to expire. They 
were popular with the Isthmian chiefs. They made the 
Central Governments some valuable presents — gunboats 
and such things. They were progressing handsomely. 
Things looked gloomy for the Americans. 

Very well; two American gentlemen, who were well 
acquainted with the Isthmus people and their ways, were 
commissioned by the Panama Railroad Company, about 
the time of the opposition English effort, to go down to the 
Isthmus and make a final trial for an extension of the right 
of way franchise. Did they take treasure boxes along? 
Did they take gun boats ? Quite the contrary. They took 
down twelve hundred baskets of champagne and a ship- 
load of whisky. In three days they had the entire popula- 



tion as drunk as lords, the President in jail, the National 
Congress crazy with delirium tremens, and a gorgeous 
revolution in full blast ! In three more they were at sea 
again, with the documents for an extension of the railroad 
franchise to ninety-nine years in their pockets, procured for 
and in consideration of the sum of three million of dollars 
in coin, and transportation of Isthmian stores and soldiers 
over the road free of charge. 

That is the legend. I don't know whether it is true, or 
not. I don't care, either. I only know that the American 
company had the franchise extended to ninety-nine years, 
and that all parties concerned were satisfied. 

MARK TWAIN. 

Ub in a 2)team 

THE deacon sat in his high-backed pew, his regular Sun- 
day place. He heard the droning tones of the old 
parson, and saw the dust-motes floating in the sunshine. He 
heard, too, the distant lowing of the cattle, the twitter of the 
birds, the ceaseless babble of the brook. They came to him 
dreamily, drowsily. 

He slept not, but he gave himself over to a delicious, 
restful languor. He starts, then moves uneasily and looks 
about. A strange feeling comes over him. 

What is it? 

It is in his hands, his feet, his head. Ah ! and about 
his heart, too ; creeping, crawling, numbing. 

He throws off the languor which bound him. His fac- 
ulties are unusually acute. The parson's words ring out 
with awful distinctness: 

"Prepare to meet thy God." 

His mind is quickened. Those words ; are they not a 
message to him, and to him alone that terrible warning ? 



He shivers. What is it ? A thought of death, and there 
— v/ill that tightening about his heartstrings never cease; 
that creeping, numbing ? 

Death, he remembers, comes sometimes that way, 
crawling on with horrible diligence until it quenches the 
vital spark, and then — 

No! No! 

But yet he cannot free himself from the grim arms that 
encircle him. '^ 

Tighter ! tighter ! tighter ! 

His eyes close, his muscles become rigid, his jaw drops, 
his whole frame shivers like a tree tempest-shaken, and then. 

And then — 

He sneezes. - frank m. weeks. 



IF it had been the desire of the founders of the Mon- 
astery to place their retreat where all the environ- 
ments would tend to take the thoughts of the Brothers 
away from earthly things, and direct them toward heaven, 
the place was well chosen. 

Hundreds of feet sheer down the face of the cliff 
which it surmounted, a stone could have fallen from the 
doorway. Then, the vast plain that stretched away 
beneath was brown and bare, and burned all day beneath 
the fierce heat of a tropical sun. 

If a Brother yielded to the enticement of this pros- 
pect, and could not rest content to pace only the worn 
paths in the rock above, but must place his feet upon 
this wider plam below, there were two ways of reaching 
it. 

One was — to follow the stone over the cliff's face. 

A longer and more toilsome way was to make care- 
ful descent by some hundreds of steps that had been cut 
in the rock centuries before ; and, unless one was as 
sure-footed as the beasts of burden that toiled faithfully 
up this weary ascent, bringing stores of food and drink 
to the Brothers, it was sometimes all the same as if one 
had followed the stone. 

So earth was not a tempting place — after one had 
once come to the top of the cliff. 

But the way to heaven was very clear. It was only 
a flight upward through the blue — some hundreds of 
feet more, perhaps, than the flight down over the cliff's 
face. 

To be sure, there were some prayers and penances 
to be done along the way ; some nights to be spent upon 
the knees on the cold stone floors of narrow cells. But 
it was not difficult — when the end was so sure. 



And so, because the Monks were content up there, 
and came down to earth so seldom from their vantage 
point up near heaven, their reputation for piety went 
abroad through the land. 

But I have had my doubts. For once, v/hen I had 
climbed those hundreds of steps cut in the solid rock, 
and at night found myself close by the gates, I heard 
sounds of music and laughter ; and there were brilliant 
lights within, and I saw great tuns of wine — and there 
was the movement of dancing feet, and the sound of 
voices — ^the mocking voices of women. 



JAMES KNAPP REEVE. 



1\-3\-3\ 



XTbe Execution 

THE sheriflf fastened the rope about the neck of the 
unfortunate wretch, and drew down the black cap. 

The priest with bowed head muttered a token for the 
soul of the condemned man. 

The jailer touched a spring and a quivering body 
dangled from the scaffold beam. 

The doctor heard the heart beat its final throb, and 
pronounced him dead. 

The men severed the rope then, and strong arms 
laid the lifeless mass in a pine box at the foot of the 
scaffold. 

" Thank you, gentlemen ! " the corpse seemed to say, 
" our little differences are now amicably adjusted." 

WILL M CLEMENS. 



H pbantasmal TKIlorlt) 

I WAS sorry to lose him out of my life. A regretful 
poignancy filled my breast, but still I submitted 
without a thought to have it otherwise. Because he was 
interesting and attractive was reason enough to say " Fare- 
well." I had habituated myself to giving up what pleased 
me most, for I had resolved to have no more feelings. I 
would be neither too elated nor too depressed, too 
happy, nor too despairing. I would dwell upon an 
even plane where no stirring of feelings should arouse 
too close a contact with life. I preferred to remain 
apart — it was my ultimate choice. 

And yet, with many other elements to brighten, to 
cheer, to give a faintly modulated pleasure that should 
avoid the prosiness of things, I missed that element of 
pleasant companionship. Why, I hardly questioned. 
And so I found myself slipping into that depressed 
stage of feeling. But I would not have it ! I would not 
recall him, not if I could — and that was impossible. 
What then ? 

I had a gift — a strange one, but I rarely used it, save 
unconsciously. To save myself I would use it deliber- 
ately. This gift was an inheritance from an Oriential 
ancestor, traced back to Persia — one of those turbaned 
sages who had all the arts at his command. It had de- 
scended to me with my love for sandal wood and fire- 
worshiping and sunworshiping tendencies. I had the 
art of creating phantasms of those who lived, and in 
my dreams drew them thither, and, constructing a plane 



of dream-existence, talked and mingled in a social way, 
under the laws of the phantasmal. 

And so in my dream I came in and found him there 
in a world of his own. It was a dull place, four great, 
dark walls enclosing him. But the radiation of his 
mind, like rays of thought, had warmed into life odd 
little germs of growth. And there all about him were 
delicate little purple blossoms springing thickly. And 
they had grown from his brain, though he knew it not. 
But I could not stay. I must go. Then the noon 
hour came when he might escape from the thrall for a 
little time. The great bell sounded twelve, and he went 
forth for a free breath from out those gloomy walls. 
And I was free and had no walls. For I was an Indian 
girl upon my pony, cantering along at a delightful pace, 
free as the wind. 

And I came to a cross-roads, and lo ! he was riding, 
too, and we met and exchanged a word. But conven- 
tional laws prevailed in this my phantasmal world, and 
though I longed to turn my Indian pony round and 
canter his way, yet I only smiled and passed him by, and 
went upon my way, and he upon his. Then 1 heard the 
great bell ringing again, and saw him once more file, be- 
hind all those other prisoners, seeking once again his 
prison-house. 

And I seemed to know how his heart burned to be 
free, how he beat the wings of his soul against his prison 
bars, but the work of the world held him fast. And I 
yearned over him, but could never break through the 
laws, even of my phantasmal, and tell him so. 

Thus we parted — and I was satisfied. For I know 
that more would destroy that even tenor of my mind 
that desired neither depression nor elation — but dead, 
even calm. 

ELLA STERLING CUMMINS. 



trbe Xegenb ot tbe Crosa 




AFTER Adam was banished from Para- 
dise he lived a Ufe of penitence and 
s(^|-.„::««a«»^ chastity to atone in part for his past trans- 
gressions. As he waxed old and felt death 
approaching, he called Seth and said: "Go, 
my son, to the terrestrial Paradise and ask 
the Archangel who keeps the gate to give 
me a balsam to save me from death. The 
way you cannot mistake, for my feet 
scorched the earth as I left Paradise." 

As Seth hastened along he found the 
vegetation scanty and everywhere the prints 
of the feet of his parents. As he neared 
the gate of Paradise, nature revived ; the air 
'and everywhere the prints was laden with odor of flow- 
°^ ™Ire"ts.°' "'' ers and the song of birds. En- 

tranced, half bewildered at 
the changed aspect of everything, he 
nearly forgot his mission, when suddenly 
he beheld the flaming sword of the angel 
who guards the gate. The celestial being 
read the inmost thoughts of Seth, and the 
favor his lips refused to utter. 

"The time of redemption has not yet 
come," the angel said, " but as a token of 
future pardon, the wood whereon redemp- 
tion shall be won shall grow from the 
tomb of thy father. I give you now three 
seeds taken from the tree whose roots are 
in Hell, and whose fibres penetrate the 
body of Cain, as though they were endued 
with life as he endeavors to clasp them to 
clamber into Paradise. The branches of 




•*£, 



"he beheld the flaming 

sword of the angel who 

guards the gate." 




this tree reached to Heaven and are covered 
with flowers and fruit." Then the cherub 
ceased and seemed to be gaining strength 
for one last command: "When Adam is 
dead," he continued, "place these three 
seeds in his mouth and bury him." 

When Seth returned, Adam praised God 
for what his son told him, and on the third 
day he died. 

In course of time three trees grew from 
the seeds brought from Paradise; one a 
pine, another a cypress and one a cedar- 
They grew with prodigious force, and it was 
one of these boughs that Moses performed 
his miracles with, bringing water out of a 
rock, and heaUng those whom a serpent 
had slain. 

After awhile the three trees 
incorporated themselves into 
one trunk, and beneath this tree David sat 
bemoaning his sins. 

In Solomon's time this tree surpassed all 
the trees of Lebanon, and when the son of 
David erected his palace, he cut down this 
tree for the main pillar to support his roof. 
The tree refused to serve such a purpose, 
and shot up and pierced the roof. Aston- 
ished and vexed at the resistence of an in- 
animate thing, he threw it over Cedron 
that all might trample on it, as they^ 
crossed the brook. The Queen of Sheba/ 
found it here and Solomon had it buried, 
and dug at its roots the pool of Bethesda, 
which healed the sick and restored sight to 
the bUnd. When the time of the crucifix- 
ion of Christ drew near, the wood rose to 



BENEATH THE TREE DAVID SAT 
BEMOANING HIS SINS." 




HE CUT DOWN THIS TREE 
FOR THE MAIN PILLAR." 



the surface, and the executioners, seeking a suitable beam, 
found it, and on it hung the Savior. After the crucifix- 
ion it was buried on Calvary and was found by Empress 
Helena, deep in the ground with two others. Then it 
was carried away by Chosroes, King of Persia, but was 
recovered by Heraclius, who defeated him in a battle, 
which, to this day, is commemorated as the Feast of 
the Exaltation. 

Such is the legend of the cross : a wierd fancy that 
has followed us down the ages, until to-day it is as an 
ungrateful friend which we would put from us but may 

not. RUTH WARD KAHN. 




ffaitb 1Renewe^ 

How good it is, when the mist has hung heavy all 
the day and the dismal drops have splashed down 
from roof and tree, to see once more the blue hill tops 
against the grey sky and to have the fog roll away like a 
dark shadow of sorrow. It is as when, in a foul little 
shop, smelHng of cheese and old leather, the men sit with 
their pipes around the stove and tell low tales and laugh. 
Then suddenly the door opens and there enters a tall 
grey-eyed girl, and all the men rise and stand abashed, 
and the place grows light and clean. 

HERBERT WARE. 



Ubc perversity ot %ovc 

ONE day Love dropped an arrow from his quiver. 
A short, stout, little lady picked it up, and with 
many blushes returned it to its owner. 

" Ah ! Sweetheart ! " said Love, " you shall have your 
reward," and he shot the arrow at a man who was pass- 
ing. 

And the man, alas ! was tall and slim. 

ERNEST PEABODY, 




HnswereD 

A GIRL sat by the sea, and the moan of the waters 
crept into her heart, and filled it with a mighty 
longing. 

Across the sands came a man, and in the moonlight 
he was good to look upon. As he drew near the girl, 
his face was bright; he held out his hand to her, and his 
eyes were tender and questioning. 

She gave him her hand, and as his lips met hers, she 
thought, " There can be no more longing, my life is 
filled." 

Then joy possessed her for a season, but when the 
glamor of the moonlight had faded, she found her life 
filled — but with pain ! 

CLAUDIA STUART COLES. 




xrbe ITslanb ot TOine 

WITH a throat which felt as if it were baked like the 
top of an alkali desert, for want of moisture, a 
shipwrecked man dragged himself ashore on an island. 
And in the unconscious state which followed his blistered 
lips whispered, 

♦' Water, water ! " 

Upon awaking, his ears were ravished by a melody— 
the inimitable harmony of a ripple-sounding brook. 
Desperately and painfully he crawled to it. 

How full of green mirrorings the pool 1 

Blinded with joy he plunged his whole head in and 
drank— as if to drain the fountain of it ; drank, drank, 
and then recoiled, shuddering. 

The stream was wine — blood colored! 



He moaned in disappointment and covered his eyes 
with his nervous hands, but his life was saved. Swaying 
he rose to his feet and dived into the forest of ferns and 
trees, seeking for water — seeking and ever finding the 
brink of the red wine-river. 

It was night when he came upon a settlement. 
Sounds of revelry issued from squalid huts, and hazy 
light escaped through dirty windows and struggled 
weakly with the darkness. A place was filled with half- 
animal beings, masquerading as men and women. They 
were nearly nude, and were reeling in the squirmings of 
a hideous dance. The faces of these thmgs were dis- 
tended disgustingly, and were raw-meat hued ; their eyes 
were bleared and shot with blood ; their lips protruded 
and were dry and cracked. The air reeked with the 
fumes of alcohol with which the creatures were satura- 
ted • And a barbarous, drunken strain it was to which 
tncy gyrated wildly. 

He who had come accosted the besotted dispenser 
of liquor 

" Water — give me water ! " 

«♦ Water ? " echoed the soaked demon, and he croaked 
grinningly, while a shadowy something, like the half- 
recollection of a name long unused, flitted across his 
eyes 

" No water here — have some wine ? " 

" No water ? " 

" No, never ! — on the Island of Wine." 

«'The Island — the hell upon earth," groaned the 
stranger, rushing forth. 

Dawn came, the sun shone hotly, things issued from 
the huts, overruning the unclean streets. Males, females, 
offspring, wobbled about — all with eyes inflamed — all 
with bloated, red visages— all smoking with the fumes of 
wine. Little and big drank against perpetual thirst. 



Wine only was in their wells, springs, streams ; it gushed 
from rude troughs — spouted from living rocks. No 
clouds came rain-laden, but lurid mists gathered in the 
murky air and torrents of wine were poured from them. 

The man fled to the ocean. And he toiled and 
wrought furiously to construct a crude apparatus in 
which to distill the salt water. Always he seemed to die 
for water. 

At last ! His fire burned, the brine bubbled in his 
still — drop by drop the clear product fell into his cup. 
He dared not look ; he was frenzied. 

When the receptacle was half filled he snatched it 
madly. Quivering in every atom of him he raised it to 
his mouth 

A voice broke on his ear 



" Oh, John, I ought to scold you — you have been 
drinking again — but here, this is water, dear." 

PHILIP VERRILL MIGHELS. 



^^ 



Ube Xullab^ 

The mystic crooning of the hoary sea, 

Borne on the southwind through the brooding night, 
Seems like a cradle song of God to me ; 

The old, old song, unchanged through years of years, 

Bidding me slumber on, nor dream of fears, 
Till dawn shall rise, and night's thin phantoms flee, 

And He once more shall say, " Let there be light I " 

C. F. LESTER. 






4* 



3cm'' 



THE sun was setting behind the rolling waves of the 
prairies. Its long, level rays blinded Lize Milton as 
she stood in the doorway of her cabin ; she shaded her 
eyes with her hand and looked across the yellow plain. 
Four days before her husband had gone to the Settle- 
ment to sell a calf. 

" Likely I'll be back termorro' at sundown," he had 
said, as he tightened a rope on his saddle ; " mebbe the 
bizniz'l take longer tho', so don't be skeered ef I don't 
come." 

Lize had waited and watched for three nights. 
" Well, he ain't a comin' ternight," she muttered, as she 
turned away from the door ; " I s'pose he'll be here ter- 
morro'." 

She took the coffee and fried hoe cake from the fire, 
and ate her supper, then fastened the door and, leaning 
her husband's gun against the bed, slept until daylight. 
Every night at sunset she watched. A week later she 
stood in the doorway shading her eyes, in which there 
had grown a curious, restless look. Whea the sun had 
gone she turned away. 

" Well, it ain't ternight, either." 

In the house the hoe cake sputtered in the pan, the 
coffee filled the air with its aroma. The table stood in 
the middle of the room with Jem's cup and plate ; his 
chair stood by it. A few moments after Lize had fastened 
the bar across the door, she heard a low whining noise 
outside ; opening the door she saw Jem's dog crouching 



by the step. He crawled into the room and lay at her 
feet. She stepped out into the darkness and called, 
"Jem, Jem." There was no answer. " What'er you 
doin' here 'thout Jem ? " But the dog only whined. 

Out on the prairie, a hundred miles from his home, 
Jem was lying, dead. He had lost his way, his horse was 
dead, and, without food, without water, he had fallen on 
the hard, dry earth; as the sun went down, while Lize 
was standing in the doorway watching for him, he 
moaned, " I said I'd be home at sundown, Lize — oh, 
Lize." A few more groans, a few more hot gasping 
breaths, and the end came. In a short while the prairie 
dogs were howling around him, and the next day the 
crows found all that the beasts had left, and soon there 
were only the bones and rags which had been torn from 
him before he was cold in death. 

Four weeks later Lize stood by her door and watched 
the sun go down. The restlessness had left her eyes, but 
a dull unseeing look had taken its place. Every night she 
had watched and waited, but no living thing had ap- 
peared on the desolate plain. 

" He won't come ternight," she muttered, and was 
turning away, when a man who had been standing behind 
the brushwood fence stepped out. 

" Could yer give me somethin' to eat ? IVe ben a 
walkin' all day 'thout food." 

" Yer kin hev Jem's supper, he ain't a comin' ter- 
night," the woman answered. When he had eaten it, she 
told him that he might sleep in the outhouse. The next 
morning after she had given him some milk and boiled 
corn, she said: 

" I ought ter get the corn in ; Jem would a had it 
don' ef he'd ben here. But he'll likely come ternight." 

The man oiTered to help her, and they worked 
together in the little patch of corn all through the long 



hot day. Lize prepared the supper, and again stood 
watching for Jem. When the red sun had disappeared 
she said: 

" Jem won't be here ternight ; yer kin hev his sup- 
per." 

The next day was the same, and the next, and as the 
days and weeks went on the man worked on the clear- 
ing ; the woman watched and waited for Jem, and, out 
on the prairie, under the scorching sun, and under the 
cold moon, some white bones lay bleaching on the yel- 
low sand. 

KATHRYN JARBOE. 



Hs irt TKaas In tbe Beginning 

A CHILD stands at an open window. Outside a mist 
hangs in heavy folds upon the earth. Now and 
again a light breeze tosses it aside, revealing for a moment 
the dripping branches of the nearest tree. The child 
sees and smiles. He is thinking of the mist. 



Years pass ; many, many years. Oh! the storms ; 
the sunshine. Oh ! the strife ; the love ; the hate. 



An old man sits at an open window looking out at the 
gray mist that hangs in heavy folds upon the earth. In 
the distance is heard the hum of the hidden world. The 
old man sighs and turns wearily away. But he is think- 
ing of the mist. gRNEST peabody, 



Ube Complaint of fftfine 

tA Monsieur: 

Monsieur le redacteu^ du (ah, pardon ; que je suis 
bete ; je veux dire) 

Monsieur :— Permit me, a stranger on your lovely 
land, to address to you a complaint of the last gravity. 

I am a French maid (cameriste, that is), and I assure 
you that I know my affaire. I was hire to attend 
Madame Van Rellem, lady of the first world, at their 
house, perfectly known of all society on Fifth avenue en 
ville. Monsieur, the husband of madam, is pretty good, 
but he commence to carry some stomachs, and he have 
the air of a man who live sufficiently well in his time. 
There is one son, a gentle small one, who has advanced 
the sixteen. He was not at all bad ever ; now he is a 
httle master— my word of honor. When I was a month 
at the house, one morning Monsieur Van Rellem knock 
at my door quite of good hour. He call out—'* Fifine," 
that is my name—" I want to speak to you ! " 

Mon Dieu, I was well embarassed. I arrange my 
camisole a little ; I throw a comb at my hair ; 1 open the 
door. 

" How is there that I can serve Monsieur ? "—I ask 
with my smile and my look of fright I do so well. Upon 
my word, he came right in and he commence. 

" See here, Fifine, I want to have a little chat with 
you. You've noticed my boy ? He's a great boy. Now 
I want him to speak the French language like a native, so 
he'll enjoy Paris when he gets there. Now you know a 
thing or two ; all French women do. I want him to get 



up a flirtation with you, and you make him think I'd 
raise enfer " — that absolutely was his word — " if I knew. 
See ? That'll make him talk to you every chance he gets, 
and in six months he'll know French like a native, and 
it'll make a man of him." " But madame, my mistress ?" 
— I gasp — " and, he knows no French. The first lessons 
shall not be amusing for me ! " " Oh, if he takes after 
his father he'll learn fast enough with such a teacher — 
and you get a bill for a hundred from me every month, 
and here's your first in advance " — and behold ! he 
throw a note for one hundred dollars on the bed, get 
himself to the door, wink, and — is gone ! 

That is three months a half since, and i am dis- 
charge! Figure to yourself why? That man Van 
Rellem send for me and he say : — " See here ! What in 
thunder have you been doing with that boy of mine ?" 

"That which you have ask me. I have him in- 
structed in French " " Instructed him ? Well I just 

guess you have. Why he knows a heap more than I do. 
I'm not going to have a son of mine knowing more 
French than his father ever did or ever can — now. You 
can get right out, Miss Fifme." 

Is not that shameful ? Will you not pubHsh me this ? 

With all marks of my profound consideration, I am, 
dear Monsieur Editeur,your all devoted, 

FIFINE BAISEE. 

P. S. — John, the manservant EngHsh, who was over 
there, have correct for me the spelling of this, but I have 
not willed that he the composition should change. 

HARRY SAINT-MADR. 






XTbe Opttmtst 

JEANNETTE trusted in the men and women all about 
her, placed her confidence in every one and every- 
thing, saw good come forth from haunts where only evil 
reigned, and all within the compass of her existence, to 
her, was sweet and pure. 

With those rare creatures who sometimes mingle 
with the world, whom we call optimists, she often sang 
the song of beauty and of love. 
She saw 

" More light 
Than darkness in the world." 

Her eyes were quick 

" To catch the first radiance of the dawn, 
And slow to note the cloud that threatens storm." 

The fragrance and the beauty of the rose delighted 
her. The sweet music of the lark's clear song hovered 
longer near her than the night hawk's cry. Even amid 
the sorrows and the pain of life, she found a rapture 

" Linked with each despair 
Well worth the price of anguish." 

She could detect more good than evil in humanity. 
She claimed that love was always conquering over hate, 
and that all men grew better as the world grew old. 

WILL M. CLEMENS. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




and Six 



